


If the Shoe Fits

by bubblebucky



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Abuse, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Cinderella AU, Coercion, Crossdressing, Hurt Lance (Voltron), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lance as Cinderella, Langst, Lotor is a Creep, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Panic Attacks, Sexual Harassment, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vomiting, but it's left ambiguous, but not in a kinky way, consider yourself warned, wow these tags are a little messed up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2018-12-12 04:20:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11729382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblebucky/pseuds/bubblebucky
Summary: A year after the war ended and three years after Lance's father died, his mother married a man named Zarkon. He was wealthy and not unkind, and he put up with the big mouthed thirteen year old boy his new wife dragged along with her. Lance knew that Zarkon and his son would never be able to replace the family he lost to the war, but he hoped they could be something just as good. But then his mother died. And he realized that they were not the people he'd hoped they were.Seven years later, an invitation arrives to Zarkon manner.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> content warning: there are references to abuse in here, y'all. stay safe please

A year after the war ended and three years after Lance's father died, his mother married a man named Zarkon.

He was wealthy and not unkind, and he put up with the big-mouthed thirteen year old boy his new wife dragged along with her. Lance knew that Zarkon and his son would never be able to replace the family he lost to the war, but he hoped they could be something just as good.

But then his mother died. And he realized that they were not the people he'd hoped they were.

But that's fine. It's fine. Lance has learned to cope with disappointment. He's learned to tuck it away, deep inside, so that it can add to the resentment that's been simmering for seven years now. And each time he's forced to scrub the floors until his knees bleed and his arms cramp, every time he's left bruised and scarred, he adds to that loathing, another drop in an ocean.

Hunk tells him it's unhealthy, on the rare occasions that he manages to pry a serious answer out of Lance. Lance, in turn, tells him gently to suggest a better solution, and that's the end of it.

He knows it's not good. He knows that one day he's going to overflow, and someone will end up getting hurt because of it. But there's really nothing he can do. He's stuck in this house, unable to escape or release all the feelings he's been bottling up, so he'll keep coping the way he always has. He has no other choice.

So, as Lance is mopping the floor of the front room, making sure the marble is sparkling for the rare guests that spend all of thirty seconds in there, he tucks away another fold of loathing and disappointment, of negativity, and forces himself to keep dragging the sudsy mop across the ground, sweeping and repetitive. He'll get lost in the monotony soon enough. He knows he will.

But then, as he's just getting into the rhythm of things about halfway through the cleaning session, someone knocks on the door.

Lance startles. He hadn't known about any guests. They're few and far between for Zarkon, and Lotor usually chooses to go out rather than bring people back here. But then, he's learned that things will always change on him when he gets used to them, so he drops the mop back in his bucket and goes to the door just as the knocking sounds again.

The man at the door is odd, to say the least. He has bright orange hair and a mustache that's both impressive and impeccably well kept, along with an outfit that's far too fancy for regular wear around the village. He looks important. And he's glaring at Lance.

"Zarkon residence?" he asks. He says the name stiffly, like it's all he can do to keep from spitting it.

"Got it in one," Lance replies, only a little weakly. He offers the stranger a smile. "How can I help you, handsome?"

There's a pause where the man eyes him warily, actually leaning forward a bit to observe him more closely. Lance tries to keep exactly how weirded out by it he is, but he can feel his mouth being tugged down into a frown and his hands itching to move up in front of his chest to create some space between them. As if coming up with a verdict, the man says, "You're not his son."

The laugh that merits is too strained to really be genuine. "Nope," Lance gestures behind him, towards the stairs visible beyond the doorway. "Lotor's upstairs. I'm just the—I'm just me."

"Well then," Suddenly, the man's demeanor is far friendlier, his entire face brightening with a smile, "I am Coran, here on behalf of Her Radiance, Princess Allura."

For a second, Lance just stares, mouth open, eyes wide. Then, he visibly shakes himself and squeaks, "That's cool."

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" Coran says, puffing up his chest a little. He pulls something from a bag on his hip and holds it out for Lance to take. "Open in the name of the Princess. An urgent message from Her Royal Majesty."

"Holy crow," Lance says, staring at the envelope being held out to him. Then, with a start, he realizes that he should probably take it, and he grabs it from Coran's hand and says far too enthusiastically, "Thank you!"

Coran, for his part, seems more entertained than offended by Lance's reaction. "Have a nice day, 'Just Me.'"

"What?" Lance asks, blinking, but Coran has already turned and practically skipped down their walkway, far out of reach before he can really get himself together enough to voice the question. "Uh, okay. Cool."

He shuts the door. He should get back to mopping. The floor is only half-done, and Zarkon will be angry if he doesn't finish soon. But—he's holding an envelope delivered on behalf of Princess Allura herself.

The envelope feels expensive in his hands. It's the good, thick kind of paper, the kind his parents wouldn't let him color on because it was for special occasions. It's held closed by a pink wax seal, the royal lion's head staring up at him as he holds the letter gingerly in his hands.

Urgent, the messenger said. Lance figures the floor can wait.

He can hear Zarkon and Lotor in the study before he can see them. They're talking about politics, or something similar, but Lance doesn't pay much attention to their words. Instead, he focuses on his breathing, on keeping his heart beating at a normal speed as he carefully pushes open the door.

Almost immediately, the conversation stops, and Lance has to hold back his cringe.

"Lord Zarkon," he says, voice a little too high as he shrinks under their stares. Zarkon looks rather unimpressed, almost disappointed, and Lotor watches him with a disturbed sort of interest. The letter is clutched in Lance's hands, held out in front of him like a shield. He continues, "There's an urgent message from Her Royal Highness."

"Oh?" Zarkon seems surprised by that. He leans back in his chair a little at the same time that Lotor leans forward, holding out a hand for Lance to drop the letter in, which he does eagerly.

He can't imagine what the letter will hold—no, wait, he totally can. There's probably a quest. Or some sort of tournament. Or maybe Zarkon is being summoned to court to be tried for some crime. Or—

Lance blinks and realizes that Zarkon and Lotor are looking at him. They've got the sort of looks on their faces that people wear when a tool doesn't work quite right: annoyed and a bit confused. And Lance, with a little shock, realizes they're waiting for him to leave.

It's as if in all the excitement, Lance forgot he wasn't really part of the family.

"Excuse me," he manages, the words audibly choked, and he practically flees from the room. It was foolish of him to believe for a second that the letter could've been for him, too. He's not the sort of person that royalty would want to engage with. The callouses, the scars, the way his clothes are worn threadbare and basically hang off him—those are all testaments to that fact.

But still. As much as the shame and disappointment, wonder flows under his skin. A letter from the Princess. Frankly, the fact that he got to touch something that she might've written, or signed, or at least been aware of is enough to have Lance awed. Even before his mother married Zarkon, he'd lived on the outskirt villages of the crown city, far away from the bustle and the glamor of the castle. In fact, the closest he ever gets to it is when he stares out the window from his room in the attic, where he can see the tallest spire of the castle gleaming white above the trees and buildings between them.

Maybe his disappointment is unfounded. Really, he's lucky. He never thought he'd get to see something directly from the castle, much less touch it, and now he's done both. Even if he has been banished from getting to hear what exactly is in that letter and is stuck mopping up the floor instead. He's used to it. And, honestly, it's better this way, right? There's no reason for him to listen to all the stuff he'll be missing. Being sent away to clean while Zarkon and Lotor learned of whatever adventure awaited them is a mercy. They did him a favor.

Which is obviously why he perks up immediately when Lotor appears at the top of the stairs, calling his name.

"Yes?" Lance answers, too quickly. The grey water sloshes dangerously against the side of the bucket when he turns to face Lotor, but Lance can hardly bring it in him to care. He tries to sound casual as he asks, "Do you want to tell me something?"

"Mm, yes, I do," Lotor hums. He's watching Lance closely, smiling knowingly as he does so, and Lance feels like an idiot for being so transparent all the time. "I'm sure your curious about the letter we just received from Her Royal Highness."

Lance's eyes widen; he can't help it. "I, um. Yes."

"How cute. But I'm afraid that letter was not for your eyes, sweet boy." Lotor turns away, then, and calls over his shoulder. "Go to the market and pick up my order from the butcher. I've already paid."

Lance doesn't respond, which is probably for the best. If he had, there's no telling what would've come out: shouting, cursing, maybe crying. His silence is better. His grips on the handles of the bucket and mop have become almost painful.

If Lance were smarter, then he wouldn't be so bothered by all this. If he didn't remain so naïve, so foolishly hopeful, then he wouldn't have all this disappointment and anger welling up inside him like blood out of a wound. But he can't help it. His mom used to say it was something admirable, his endless hope for a better future. If she could only see him now, maybe she'd change her thinking.

The bucket is emptied outside with perhaps too much vigor, the mop thrown back in its closet a bit more enthusiastically than necessary. The door is just on the right side of being slammed, shaking some in its frame. These are all things that could get him in trouble, but Lance is too angry to think of that at the moment. Let them be angry. Lance is.

_How cute_. Lance kicks a rock on the road. _Sweet boy._

The butcher is not far, but Lance doesn't go there. Instead, he turns onto a smaller road and follows it some ways down, until he can see a familiar house, tall and sturdy just like the boy who lives there, odd and complex just like the girl. His anger doesn't disappear, but he shoves it down and away, throwing on a smile as he knocks on the door and greets his best friend.

"Hunk!" Lance says, overly loud and enthusiastic. But that's nothing new. "Buddy, light of my life, my beautiful bro."

"Hey Lance," Hunk replies fondly, stepping out the door to join him immediately. "How are you?"

"Better now that you're here," Lance replies automatically, only half joking. "Where's Pidge?"

"In the—"

"I'm here!" Pidge bustles out from around the side of the house, shoving various wires and tools into her deep pockets as she does. A pair of overlarge goggles, undoubtedly borrowed from her brother, sits on the top of her hair like a headband. She probably doesn't even realize they're there, but Lance has grown so used to the sight of them that he doesn't bother mentioning their presence.

"Pidgey!" He bumps her with his hip, effectively making her stumble a bit, and she squawks a little as it jostles the various hardware on her person. Lance says, "Is that a small bomb in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

"It's not a bomb," Pidge says, rolling her eyes, and she pulls out the thing Lance's hip knocked into, only to squint at it a little and say, "…well, it's _probably_ not a bomb."

"Great," Lance says. "I'm here for thirty seconds, and you try to kill me. It's like you don't even love me."

He flops on the ground, right there in front of the house Hunk and Pidge share. Familiar with this tradition, they drop down onto the grass yard beside him, watching as Lance sprawls his legs out in front of him and pushes back his shoulders. Then, he begins to chatter aimlessly about the day's weather, and the grass, and the people he passed on the short walk over, and basically anything other than his own home. Of course, Hunk and Pidge know Lance better than anyone else does in this world, and they only allow this to go on for a few minutes before they cut to the chase.

"You already talked about the grass," Pidge says dryly, interrupting the beginnings of his rant over the way it's tickling him. "Try the dirt instead if you want to keep avoiding the subject."

Lance opens his mouth, closes it, and glares. Then, just to spite her, he says, "The dirt really _is_ unusually—"

"Okay, okay, wait," Hunk interrupts, wincing a little and sending Pidge a reproachful look. "Lance, c'mon, do we have to do this every time?"

"Yes," he grumbles. He pauses, and then adds reluctantly, "I was leading up to it."

"Yeah, well, it's been led up to, so spill."

"Please," Hunk tacks on to Pidge's statement.

Lance huffs out a sigh and brings his legs up, hugging them to his chest. Like always, he can't quite make eye contact with his friends, leaving his gaze to stay firmly on his knees. He says, lowly, "I'm just tired of this, you know?"

He doesn't have to clarify. They know. They've known for years and have been trying to convince Lance to come stay with them for just as long. But Lance knows Lotor and Zarkon better than anyone, and he knows they would not just let him leave. No, they'd come after him and the people who harbored him if he tried to run. Hunk and Pidge insist that they don't care about the danger it puts them in, but Lance does. Maybe if they were knights, or was friends with someone high up, or just had some way to be able to protect themselves and him, then he'd go with them. But they don't, so he doesn't.

Hunk and Pidge's faces soften, but they aren't surprised.

Lance continues, "It's just, I'm a person, you know? I'm a person. Why do they like messing with me so much? I'm used to the cleaning and the serving or whatever, but I wish they'd stop treating me like—like I'm just some toy they can twist and pull all they want."

Pidge says, firmly, "You're not a toy."

"I know," Lance says, eyes flicking up briefly. "I know that."

"What happened?" Hunk asks.

He's clearly curious, in the sort of way that he is only because he wants to know how to help the best he can. Sometimes Lance loathes him for it a little, because he doesn't want to talk about this stuff. He'd rather bury these feelings deep down inside and never acknowledge their existences. And most times, that's what he does. Lance knows that Hunk isn't really expecting an answer beyond a shrug. But—

Maybe he's reaching that limit Hunk is always going on about, that overflow line for his emotions. Lance finds himself opening his mouth, the day's events spilling out almost against his will.

"There was a message," Lance says, and Pidge and Hunk straighten up as if they were shocked. It's both embarrassing and weirdly comforting. "I wanted to see it. Lotor knew it. He was just teasing me a little, I guess, but I felt like an idiot. I don't know. It's not such a big deal, now that I'm saying it out loud."

"Hey, no, it's a big deal," Hunk insists, sounding angry on his behalf. "Lotor is a jerk."

"Ha, really? I hadn't noticed," Lance's voice is ridden with sarcasm, but he smiles, taking away the bite. "Thanks, bro."

"Who was the message from?" Pidge asks. There's something in her face that makes Lance think she already knows, but he replies anyway.

"Oh, um. I know it sounds crazy, but it was from the Princess. Wild, right?"

"Did you end up getting to see what it said?" she asks, and Lance shakes his head. He's surprised when Pidge grins, wide and mischievous. "Do you want to?"

"What?" Lance can feel his own heart start to take off in his chest, and he leans forward, unable to hold himself back as Pidge starts to rustle around in her pockets once more. "How do you—what?"

"You think Zarkon is the only one who got a letter?" Pidge rolls her eyes, and from her pocket she produces an envelope, identical to the one delivered to Zarkon's manner this morning in every way except for the broken seal. Lance can't take his eyes off it. "Here, go nuts."

Pidge tosses it at him, and Lance is almost frantic in his effort to catch it. The way he holds it in his hands is a direct contrast to the way Pidge had it stuffed away in her pockets. He's so careful and hesitant it's almost uncomfortable to watch, thumbing the torn edges of the envelope nervously and sending them looks every few moments, as if to say _are you sure?_

Hunk's voice is a little tight as he says encouragingly, "Open it, bud."

Lance does, in the same cautious way he was holding it. The letter slides out easily, paper a pleasing ivory, ink dark and smooth. He sends them both one final look—Hunk and Pidge both nod reassuringly—and brings the letter up to read.

The moment that its contents sink in is obvious.

"Cheese and crackers!" Lance crows, head snapping up. His face is practically glowing with excitement, a grin stretching across his face, eyes widened in awe. "You guys! Holy crow. _Holy_ _crow._ I can't believe this. Am I losing my mind?"

"Can't lose what you never had," Pidge says, at the same time Hunk says, "Nope."

Lance can't even pretend to glare at her. "A Royal Ball! At the castle! And, look—'to expose Princess Allura to potential suitors.' Oh, man, that's wild."

Pidge's face twists a little at that. "I think it's stupid. No one can find the person they're meant to spend the rest of their life with through a suitor's ball. Everyone's going to be totally fake."

Hunk shrugs. "Maybe it's just a thing to appease the crowds. Everyone's been talking about how Princess Allura doesn't have anyone to share the throne with."

"Why does that matter? She's capable. She doesn't need another person to rule with her."

Lance waves their argument away with the hand not currently clamped onto the invitation. "It doesn't matter why the princess is looking for someone to warm her empress-sized bed. What matters is that we've all been invited to a party at the castle!"

"Oh yeah," Hunk says. "Cool."

" _Cool?_ " Lance repeats incredulously. "We're gonna see where the Royal family hangs out! Where history is made, Hunk. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

"We've already been to the castle," Pidge says, and Lance is all of a sudden reminded that Pidge and Hunk have lives outside of him—important lives, being as they're the most talented metalworker and inventor in all Altea. He's nothing but a servant boy in the outskirts of the crown city. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but only for him.

Pidge continues without noticing the slight slump in his posture. "Besides, neither of us is compatible with Princess Allura. Hunk is basically already married to Shay, and I'm in a very exclusive relationship with my work."

That sounds a lot like—"You guys aren't going?"

"Well, um," Hunk shifts a little under Lance's surprised, slightly devastated gaze. "We might. It's just not that big a deal to us? Really, we're at the castle a lot for, you know, business. And the Princess seems nice, but I'm really happy with Shay."

"But," Lance looks down at the letter in his hands. He feels foolish, getting so excited by something so obviously mundane to his friends. It's certainly a reminder of where he stands compared to them. "It's a _party_."

"Yeah, I don't really like those," Pidge says, and Lance flinches the tiniest bit.

Hunk hurries to say, "But it'll probably be really cool. It's seriously awesome that we were invited."

He's obviously just saying it for Lance's benefit, so that he doesn't feel so bad about their unenthusiastic reactions. It's stupid that he has to fake excitement for Lance's sake. Of course this isn't a huge deal to them. Of course.

Lance puts on a grin, and forcibly perks himself back up.

"Who knows? Maybe the princess will fall in love with me and I'll live happily ever after," Lance says, leaning backwards and tilting his head back at the sky.

Pidge rolls her eyes. "Sounds likely."

"Hey! I'm charming. Hunk, tell her."

"Lance is very charming, Pidge," Hunk says dutifully, and Lance high fives him, sticking his tongue out at Pidge at the same time.

"Clearly," she says flatly, though her mouth is tugging up into a smirk. Then, "Are you really gonna go?"

"I hope so," Lance says. He straightens a little, blue eyes sparkling and face lighting up as he speaks. "I mean, I have to, right? The invitation says 'every eligible person.' And I'm an eligible person, so I'm basically required by law to go. Zarkon can't keep me from attending, can he?"

Hunk and Pidge share a look.

"I don't know," Hunk says carefully, in that tone of voice that Lance hates because it means he's pitying him. "He shouldn't be able to, but…"

"Zarkon's never really shown much regard to laws before now, has he?" Pidge finishes. Her eyes are drifting down the length of his neck, where one of his scars darkens his skin. He bristles.

"This is different. This isn't just beating the servant boy—" Hunk and Pidge wince. "—this is a royal decree. He can't just ignore that."

"Okay," Hunk agrees, way too easily. He pats Lance on the shoulder, and even though he knows he's not trying to make him feel like some sort of irrational child that needs to be pacified, Lance can't help but want to lash out at him. But he doesn't. Instead, he clenches his fists and sits there docilely as Hunk says, "I hope you're right."

Pidge then starts talking about some new thing she's invented, full of technical lingo that Lance doesn't really feel like translating right now, and for the next hour he passively lets Hunk and Pidge's discussion wash over him, staring up at the clouds drifting by overhead and digging his fingers into the grass beneath him.

And later, as he walks back down the road with the butcher's package, feet crunching on the gravel as Zarkon's manner comes into view, he swallows roughly. He hopes he's right, too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo yo yo guys just a warning, Lotor is a creep. there's definitely some harassment with sexual-like themes, so if that's going to be an issue, please don't read this. otherwise enjoy lmao

He takes care in preparing.

The windows are sparkling, the floors waxed, laundry completely done. He even washed Zarkon's cat Kova, and he has new scratches along his arms to prove it.

Still, he's worried it's not enough. Even with the gleaming manner and Lance's efforts to be less obnoxious than usual, he can't help but fear that Zarkon won't be receptive when he asks. And he's going to ask, he is. He's just… waiting for the right moment.

The moment comes sooner than Lance expects.As he pours Zarkon more wine without prompting, extra diligent in the way he places the glass back down within reach, he finds Zarkon's gaze resting on him heavily, slightly narrowed.

"You're acting odd," he says, deep voice causing a bolt of fear to go through Lance, "What is this about?"

"Um," Lance says, which isn't a great start. Just say it. Just say it. He has to let him go, right? He just needs to say it.

Lotor cuts in, voice lilted in amusement, "Yes, you are being awfully good. Do you want something?"

It's hard to form words when both Zarkon and Lotor are watching him like predators, but he's afraid of what they'll do if he grates on their impatience, so he forces out, "I heard about the ball."

There's a moment of silence. Zarkon watches him impassively, but Lotor actually looks… a bit shocked. Certainly not like he was expecting any real reply. Lance shifts a little, wanting to cringe into himself as he waits for a response.

"I see," Zarkon says. He doesn't say anything else.

"I found out when I went to the butcher's yesterday. Everyone was talking about it." _I didn't steal the letter. I didn't disobey you,_ is left unsaid and still heard.

"I suppose it was inevitable," Zarkon says, still giving Lance no hint as to his feelings on the subject. "You'd like to attend, then?"

He hates that he can hope so much. He hates that it's all over his face, raw and vulnerable. "Yes, sir."

A beat. Two. Lotor glances between Lance and his father, obviously displeased. Zarkon leans back a bit. Finally, he says, "I don't care what you do, as long as it does not affect your work here."

Lance's jaw goes slack. He can't move. He's staring at Zarkon, unable to believe the words that just left his mouth. "Th-Thank you, Lord Zarkon."

Zarkon sort of nods, more dismissing than anything else, and Lance thinks that's the end of it. It should be the end of it.

But then Lotor—fucking, shitty, asshole Lotor—ruins everything. "That's unacceptable."

The room's attention snaps to Lotor immediately. The warmth in Lance's stomach curdles.

He says, eyes sharp as he looks at his father, "Lance cannot go to the ball. There is no doubt that he'd try something—try to escape, at the very least."

"I won't," Lance says, unable to help himself, and Zarkon silences him with a look.

"I hardly think the boy's brave enough for something like that," Zarkon says, and maybe Lance would be more insulted if he weren't so desperate for any sort of defense. As it is, he's practically screaming in his own head, _I'm harmless, I won't do anything, I'd never, please, I'd never._

Lotor doesn't look at Lance, though he can still feel his attention. "No, but I know there are others who would do the job for him."

Hunk. Pidge. Lance has no idea how Lotor knows about them, but he does. He's surprised, but he shouldn't be. Somehow Lotor knows everything about him, so finding out that he knows of his friends' displeasure with his living situation should be no big shock.

It's apparent that he doesn't inform his father of everything he learns, though, by the way Zarkon's jaw clenches, eyes narrowing in a quiet anger that Lance recognizes. It's aimed at Lotor right now, though Lance knows he isn't safe, but if Lotor is intimidated by having Zarkon's glare on him, then his only response is to straighten up further. Lance can feel himself grow unwittingly nervous for Lotor; Zarkon always likes it better when they cower.

Zarkon repeats lowly, "Others?" It's an unspoken command.

Lotor smirks, and says in a voice practically dripping with cunning, "Oh, yes. Our Lance has been very busy. He has two members of Princess Allura's artisans court wrapped around his finger. I've heard they've discussed spiriting him away several times," he pauses, eyes sliding smoothly to Lance, who can do nothing more than stand and watch in horror as Lotor ruins all his chances at a night of freedom, "I can't imagine they'd let an opportunity like this go to waste."

Zarkon is tense. Lance can feel dread clawing at his insides as he waits for him to take away his offer, to turn to Lance and punish him for finding people who care about him. Instead of doing any of that, though, Zarkon says, "You should've informed me sooner."

Lotor hesitates for a moment, then says, "I wasn't sure if it was relevant."

"And yet you bring it up now."

Lotor doesn't have a response on hand for that, so Zarkon heaves an irritated sigh, and says, "I don't care about your obsession with the boy, Lotor."

Lotor's eyes flash, and he tenses, ready to fight. "Father—"

"Stop," Zarkon holds up a hand. Lotor freezes, but is obviously holding himself back by barely a thread of discipline. "I do not care. You may decide whether he attends the ball or not, but do not try to distract me with stories again."

Lotor doesn't even look like he heard anything beyond _you may decide whether he attends_. As soon as those words had left Zarkon's mouth, he'd turned to Lance with a sort of self-satisfied sneer that makes Lance's spine feel like it's collapsing. He gives his father some sort of half-formed apology that Zarkon replies to with something equally unenthusiastic.

Lance, who's been staring a little blankly this whole time, unable to believe that his dream had been crushed so swiftly, makes a tiny noise of denial. 

He says, in a voice too high to be his own, "But—it said 'every eligible person.' I have to go. I'm an eligible person."

Zarkon acknowledges his words with a look of warning crossing his face. Lance can't even bring himself to care, and continues, "The Princess—"

"—Invited all eligible people, yes," Lotor takes over smoothly, obviously enjoying Lance's plight. "However you are neither eligible nor a person."

Lance can feel his lips trembling as Lotor stands and stalks over to him, looming above him.

He has the cruel smile that Lance is so familiar with on his face as he looks at him, as he says to Zarkon, "I think Lance and I need to have a discussion. May we be excused, father?"

He doesn't even wait for Zarkon to give an uncaring grunt in consent before dragging Lance out of the room by his wrist. They rush through the manner, the floors still sparkling with Lance's earlier hope for the future, until they get to the small door that opens up on the staircase leading to Lance's attic room. Lotor forces him through and marches him up the stairs, face slowly morphing into something angry and dangerous. When they reach Lance's bedroom, there's no pause as Lotor throws him against the wall and pins him there.

He leans in close, eyes narrowed, mouth snarling. "So, you want to go to the ball and throw yourself at the Princess? Try to get away from me?" His grip on Lance's arm is bruising. "She wouldn't take a second glance at you. You're a servant boy."

"I just want to see the castle," Lance says, and his voice is a bit empty. He tugs at his arm and isn't surprised when Lotor doesn't release it. "I'm not trying to leave, I promise."

"It doesn't matter what you're trying to do," Lotor says. He lowers his mouth closer to Lance's until they're breathing the same air, and runs a knuckle down his cheek with the hand not currently strangling his arm. "You won't be going. You belong here. With me."

Lance presses together his lips and takes a deep breath through his nose. There's something crashing and burning in the depths of his chest, like a bird dropping out of the sky—it's been there since Zarkon dropped Lance's fate into Lotor's hands. It wasn't even done out of maliciousness; Zarkon just legitimately hadn't cared at all. He's not sure what's worse. He wants to scream and cry and argue, but he knows from experience that those things will get him nothing but more scars.

So instead Lance says, voice small and desperate, "Please."

Lotor pauses, eyes widening just a fraction. Then his mouth splits into a smile, and he leans impossibly closer until his breath his hot and tangible against Lance's cheek, teeth close to nipping at his ears. 

"So desperate," he purrs, "You're so sweet when you're desperate. What a nice change."

He's too close, trapping Lance between his arms. He can't bring himself to speak—not when Lotor is practically waiting to swallow his words, mouth just inches away—and instead just stares back at him, eyes wide, waiting for Lotor to finish. Because Lance has no doubt he's going somewhere with this.

He doesn't have to wait long to be proven right. 

"Maybe if you are this obedient all the time, I'd let you go to the ball with me." Lotor's words are nonchalant, but his eyes are intense as they stare Lance down, daring him to accept the challenge. "Could you do that for me, Lance? Could you be a little more… agreeable?"

It's too vague. Lance doesn't even know what he's asking for. There's a lot he would do to get to go to the ball, but there are lines he will not cross. And Lotor's words drift close to them, hinting at them. He can't help but hesitate, nervous to agree to whatever deal Lotor is presenting. But then, he can always drop out. He can always say no if he needs to, right? 

It's worth it. A few days of entertaining Lotor is worth a night of freedom.

"Yes, Lotor," Lance forces out, the words feeling thick on his tongue. 

Lotor smiles at him, then releases his arm and backs up in a single fluid motion. "There's my sweet boy," he coos cruelly, and he crosses out of the room without another word. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah um this chapter is full of Lotor being a super creep and a lot of nonconsensual touching, so if that is something you can't/don't want to read, PLEASE DO NOT READ IT! stay safe, y'all

Lotor doesn't exactly ease him into it.

On the first day of their agreement, Lotor has him bring his breakfast to his room. It's not alarming in and of itself. Lotor's had his breakfast brought up to him before. But the fact that he's chosen to make Lance bring him his food now, after Lance has agreed to be obedient as possible, has him uneasy. Still, it's not like he has much of a choice, and Lotor knows it. Thus, standing outside Lotor's bedroom with a tray full of fruit, Lance takes a deep breath and braces himself for whatever is to come.

The door doesn't quite squeak when he pushes it open with a hip, but Lotor is sitting up in bed waiting for him nonetheless. He is, most likely for no other reason beyond making Lance uncomfortable, shirtless; the pale expanse of his chest is completely on display with how Lotor reclines, arms folded behind his head. Lance's steps stutter a little as he realizes that, by how the sheets pool around his waist, Lotor might not even be wearing pants, but he manages to cross the room without much more than a blush stinging at his cheeks.

Lotor chuckles as Lance settles the tray down on his bedside table, completely ignoring his breakfast in favor of watching Lance with too-keen eyes as he pours a glass of water and unraps a set of silverware. Lance can feel his gaze like a sunburn, but tries to focus on getting his slightly shaky hands to obey rather than the startlingly unclothed man eyeing him.

"Enjoy your breakfast," he says when it's all laid out.

He turns to go, but then Lotor calls out, "Oh, leaving so soon?"

Lance stiffens. "Do you need something?"

"Need? No. Want?" Lotor catches Lance's gaze and holds it unblinkingly. "Certainly."

As if that isn't suggestive enough, Lotor throws off his sheets. Lance flinches a little but is relieved to find that despite two bare creamy legs being revealed, Lotor is, in fact, wearing a pair of boxers. They're rather unfortunately short, but it's better than nothing. Much better.

Maybe Lance looks too long, because Lotor's smile widens, and he crooks a finger at Lance and motions him closer. Lance can't keep the flustered blush off his face.

"Don't be so nervous," Lotor teases. His smile is cutting. "I just want a bit of company. You can help me with that, can't you?"

Lance can hear the question Lotor doesn't ask— _are you giving up yet?_ —and strides back over to him, chin up even as his hands toy with the hem of his shirt nervously. Lotor doesn't look anything other than pleased as he motions for Lance to sit beside him, and Lance does so with as much composure as he can maintain while sitting in bed next to his mostly-naked tormenter.

Lotor angles himself towards Lance immediately, legs brushing against his, and he leans forward a bit, eyes shining with cruel mischief. With nimble fingers, he plucks a cube of cantelope from the tray Lance brought up and holds it between them. Lance knows what he's going to say before he even says it.

"Care for a taste?"

_Are you giving up yet?_

Lance's replying smile is cold. "Please."

The whole thing is just a challenge, really. A game. Lotor tries to bluff Lance into submission, and Lance bluffs Lotor into letting him attend the ball. Maybe it's childish. But it's easier to view this entire awful unfair thing as a game between two equally-matched contestants instead of Lotor dragging him around by the heart on his sleeve.

It continues throughout the week. Lotor knows Lance, or at least he knows how uncomfortable Lance is around him. He's pretty sure Lotor finds it entertaining, the way his heart will start beating faster whenever he gets to close, the way he freezes up if he touches him. He likes to play with Lance, finding limits and pushing them, seeing lines and blurring them.

Lotor's abuses tend to be subtle. While Zarkon simply chooses to beat him when he's done wrong, Lotor prefers to draw things out a bit more. He likes to watch Lance's spirit break more than his body. He likes Lance to beg, weak and desperate for food after going without for three days, skittish and starved for comfort from weeks locked in his attic. The times Lotor is given the leeway to play with Lance is few, for his games take up more time than Zarkon permits him to waste, but they've left Lance perhaps more weary of Lotor than his father. At least he knows what he has coming with Zarkon.

He thinks Lotor knows this. Lance knows he doesn't hide it well. And ever since their agreement, Lotor has been much more involved in Lance's day, calling for favors so often that Lance's daily chores often have to get rushed through so that he can cater to Lotor's calls and complete the challenge.

If Lance wasn't so competitive, then maybe he would've given up. As it is, all his hopes and determination towards getting a night of freedom at the Princess' ball is bolstered strongly by the fact that he's resolved to beat Lotor at his own game, despite the unfair odds. If only to wipe that smirk off his pasty face when Lance gets to dance the night away far out of his reach.

But it still isn't pleasant.

Every time Lotor requests a favor, Lance can feel himself go tense. Just the way his voice curls into his ears, cloying and sharp and suggestive, makes Lance want to turn tail and run every time Lotor calls, "Lance, could you do something for me?"

Without fail, though, he's gone to Lotor and done whatever strange, humiliating task he asks for. Sometimes he needs help picking an outfit. Other times, Lotor asks for help brushing his hair. Most often, he asks for some company while he works on whatever paperwork Zarkon provides him with, and one memorable time he had Lance give him a massage.

Lance has handled all of these flawlessly, much to his own surprise. Lotor might be surprised, as well, but Lance can't be sure; every time he thinks he sees anything resembling displeasure on the other's face, it's covered by a lecherous smile immediately, leaving Lance hesitant to whether anything else was there at all. So the question of whether he's doing better than Lotor expected is left unanswered in the recesses of his mind.

Unanswered, until Lotor stops him in the hallway.

Lance thinks he knows the game at this point. Lotor stops him in the hall, and he's expecting Lotor to sneer and ask him to come sit with him while he works or something lame and kinky like that. That is not what Lotor does.

Lotor grabs his arm, pulling Lance to a halt, and his nails dig into his bicep just enough for it to sting. In an instant, Lance is terrified. This isn't part of the game. He doesn't get to just do things; he has to ask. He has to challenge Lance, and Lance has to accept the challenge. Lotor is changing the rules.

But then, that's part of the game too, Lance supposes.

"Lance," Lotor smiles in a way that's only a smile by technicality. "I've been looking for you."

Lance feels like he's speaking with paste in his mouth. "Well, you found me. What can I help you with?"

Lance feels like a lamb walking willingly into his own slaughter. He's standing here smiling and asking what he can do to help while Lotor is planning how to best destroy him. He's practically asking Lotor to do his worst.

"I've got something in mind," Lotor says, voice like a spider spinning silk webs, intricate and inescapable, poisonous.

"Oh?" The grip on Lance's arm gets tighter.

"Yes. Do you think you could help me, sweet boy?"

There's something in the way he says this that makes Lance nervous. Well, Lance is always nervous when Lotor comes around, but this time in particular feels like bad news. Lotor is more confident than usual. It's like he's already won. Which is odd, because he hasn't yet. Lance has been doing so well, pushing through every obstacle with a polite smile. He'll do the same with this one, he's sure.

"Of course, Lotor. I'll help you with anything," Lance replies, a lamb trotting to the slaughterhouse, a fly landing on a shimmering web.

Lotor's grin flashes like the swing of an axe, and he pulls Lance around by his arm and backs him against a wall. "You'd do anything?"

Oh. His heart is beating too fast in his chest. Lance knows that this is going to be a mistake, he knows. But he's—he's drowning. He's been treading water for seven years and his legs are tired, and this party is like the first island he's seen in ages. He just wants a break. Just for a night. 

Lance takes a breath, then turns his head slightly until he can meet Lotor's eyes. Carefully, he wets his lips, and he pushes the word out of his throat. "Anything."

There are lips on his immediately. It's forceful, a little sharp and not at all kind, but Lance can take it. He's willing to do this for a night of freedom. It's—it's just kissing, right?

After ravaging him for a few more seconds, Lotor drags his mouth down, catching Lance's lower lip with his teeth and grinning when that causes him to make a small sound of surprise. Panting just a little, Lotor presses himself up against Lance, touching chest to toe.

"Will you let me touch you?" he asks breathily, as if he isn't already doing that. A pair of hands slide under Lance's shirt, and his stomach tenses a little at the hot press of fingers against his torso. "Will you be mine?"

"What," Lance's voice is barely a whisper, "What do you mean?"

"Oh, Lance," Lotor chuckles, lifting a hand to caress at his cheek. "My sweet boy, you know exactly what I mean."

He does. He knows. He's been afraid of this, dreading it since the moment he took up Lotor's challenge. There is so much he would do to go to the ball—so much he's already done—but he isn't sure he can do this. Maybe that's childish or stupid of him, maybe it's naïve to think that Lotor won't just take it from him anyway, but he just—he doesn't think he can do it. Not this, of all things.

But Lotor is watching him, waiting for an answer. He's licking his lips. Lance feels the cold stone wall at his back and the burning heat of Lotor pressing against his front, and it's too much. He can't do this. He can't do this. He can't. He.

"I—" Lance tries to speak, but finds that his voice fails, cut off by this awful pressure in his chest that keeps growing, growing, growing—and it's making it increasingly hard to breathe, and think, and his mind is dissolves into a continuous litany of _I can't I can't I can't I can't_ —he's going to die—he's going to suffocate on his own breath, right here on this wall with Lotor still watching him with keen golden eyes, and—

"Shh, calm down, I'm not going to hurt you."

Lotor's weight against him is suddenly gone. With nothing holding him up, he slides to the ground, legs weak and trembling. There's a hand on his face then, too hot, and he knows it's Lotor, knows that the voice cooing at him is Lotor, too.

"There, there. There's no need to be afraid. Breathe."

Hearing his voice almost makes things worse. Almost. But if Lance forgets that it's him, lets the words and not the salacious voice drawling them wash over him, then it's okay. He's just fine. He doesn't have to do anything.

His thoughts are echoed by Lotor, who says to him, "Poor thing, I didn't mean to frighten you. I'm not going to force you."

Lance's heart is still beating too fast for comfort, and his shoulders are shaking with the effort of trying to breathe, but he still manages to choke out the words, "I'm sorry."

Lotor hums, a pleased sort of sound. His hair tickles Lance's cheek when he leans forward to press a searing kiss on his forehead. "I know you are."

Maybe Lotor won't hold this against him. Maybe he won't take away the deal. He's done everything else, right? This is the only time he's messed up all week. Surely Lotor can forgive just this?

He has to know. "Lotor, does this—"

"It's okay," Lotor interrupts him, voice smooth and patronizingly gentle. "I know you've done your best."

Thank God.

Lance slumps forward, so thankful that he doesn't care that he's pressing his face into Lotor's chest right now. He could cry, he's so relieved. Actually, he's just about to, eyes tearing up, back starting to tense, and Lotor just pulls him more snugly against him, a hand resting on his back, another running up and down the bare, scarred expanse of his arm. It's almost comforting. It reminds him of his mother, just a bit.

He falls asleep there, leaned against a warm chest, sitting on the ground of the hallway.

He wakes up in his own bed. It's the day of the ball.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo yo yo i was gonna wait a few days before posting this, but i really wanna get this story done before my school starts so here we go. mind the tags, buds. anyone who spots the vague spongebob reference gets a high five

It had been a bumpy road. Lotor did his best to make Lance break, but he hadn't. All his tricks, all his harassment, the teasing, the touching, the humiliation—and Lance hadn't given in. There was that one unfortunate instance the night before, but overall Lance likes to think he's come out relatively unscathed. He won. He's getting what he wants.

And so on the day of the ball, Lance can hardly stay still. This doesn't prove to be a problem since Zarkon has him running all over the manner, doing all sorts of last minute projects. Any other day, he might be a little bitter over the fact that he's working his tail off while Zarkon and Lotor sit in their comfortable studies, but in just a few hours he'll be at the castle fulfilling his dreams. The ache in his hands from scrubbing at the spokes of the carriage wheels, the complaining of his back from hauling huge piles of laundry, the sting of his hands from the boiling water that Lotor insists is necessary for his hair routine: none of that can pierce the glowing aura of excitement that surrounds Lance.

And after he leaves freshly-laundered formal wear and a light snack in both Zarkon and Lotor's rooms, two hours before they're all set to depart, Lance retreats to his own room. There, he scrubs himself clean and towels himself dry, he combs his hair flat and smooths down the cowlick that stubbornly tries to pop up in the back, and he dresses himself in his nicest clothes. His nicest clothes happen to be a white dress shirt that's made for someone a few inches broader than him and some black pants for someone a few inches shorter, but when he tucks the shirt in and puts on his boots the issues aren't particularly evident. He's not going to blow anyone away with his fashion choices, but it's a vast improvement to the usual rags he wears. If he smiles bright enough, the dark circles under his eyes are hardly noticeable.

And at this point, he can't help but smile. He's all but floating down the stairs to the front hall where Zarkon and Lotor stand, waiting for the carriage to be pulled around front, and they both glance up when he appears. No, wait, Zarkon glances; Lotor stares. Something dark and possessive flashes across his face, and his mouth splits into a smile.

"Sweet boy, you look delicious."

Lance's smile doesn't even falter. He's too excited to be brought down by Lotor's creepiness. He just says, "Thank you, my lord," and bounces a little as he strains his ears for the carriage.

Lotor's smile takes on an odd sort of quality, like he knows something Lance doesn't, but Lance can't think of a single thing that he might be missing. That's sort of the point, though.

Lotor says, in an eager sort of drawl, "I suppose you're here to see us off, hm?"

Lance freezes. "Excuse me?"

"It's so very sweet of you to do," Lotor continues, ignoring Lance's question. "Especially since you wanted to go so badly yourself."

"I—I am going," he swallows, "Aren't I?"

And this, this is it. The moment Lotor has been waiting for. The lamb has finally spotted the axe, the fly has found itself stuck in a web. Lotor says, "But you failed, remember? You weren't very agreeable with me last night. A pity, since you were so good all week long."

"You said it was okay," Lance says. He hates the way his voice sounds, so weak and tiny. He hates that he feels that way, too. "You said—you said it was okay because I did my best."

"And it _is_ okay," Lotor insists with a smile that shows too many teeth. "You don't have to go to the ball."

This can't be happening.

"Please, I only messed up once." Lance takes an aborted step forward, tugging at his sleeves. "I was good. I did what you said."

"Mostly." The word is sharp. "You did what I said, _mostly_. And that, my sweet boy, was not our deal."

"But—"

"Lotor, we must go," Zarkon calls. He's waiting in the doorway, observing their interaction with a bored sort of disapproval. "We don't have time for you to toy with him any longer."

Lotor's face twists into a glare, but he says nothing in response to his father. Instead, he leans down to kiss Lance on the cheek, but this time there is no promise of a royal ball to keep him from flinching away, so he does. Violently. Stumbling backwards before Lotor's lips can get any closer than they already were.

The motion surprises Lotor, somehow. His mouth parts, eyebrows pulled down, and he looks ready to full on interrogate Lance for his avoidance when Zarkon snaps, "Now, Lotor."

Lotor rolls his eyes, then says to Lance, "Goodbye, sweet boy. Don't go anywhere."

And then they leave.

The door closes with a single, definitive slam, and Lance flinches at the sound. His breaths come out in heavy, trembling pants as the sounds of the carriage leaving grow fainter. 

The house is quiet. For a few moments, Lance just stands there, eyes still glued to the door. Then, quietly, he says, "Fuck."

Something in his chest throbs like an aching wound. 

"Fuck," Lance says again, louder, and grabs at his hair. "Fuck!" And now he's shouting, stumbling through the halls that seem to blur before his stinging eyes. Each time he shouts he gets louder, as if screaming loud enough with drown out the pain that's burning through his chest. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

He fumbles for a doorknob, and with a twist he's crashing outside. The early evening air is cool on his skin but he still feels like he's burning up inside, like everything is bubbling up and boiling over and he can't stop it. He can't stop it. 

"It's not fair!" Lance drops to the ground not far from the door, knees scraping on the dirt. He's getting his clothes dirty, but it doesn't matter now, does it? Apparently he's already too dirty to go to the ball, a little mud won't make much of a difference. He lets out a choked sound and curls over into himself, grabbing at his chest like maybe he can pry that terrible thing out. "I did what he said."

It's just too much. He can't take it anymore. There's nothing to hope for. Every time he thinks something will turn out okay, it doesn't. Nothing will ever get better. He sees that now, and the realization tastes like a mouthful of dust, suffocating, stealing the air from his lungs. 

He must be there for ages, falling apart at the backside of the house. It certainly feels that way. And then, suddenly, there's two shadows that surround him and quickly envelope him in warmth. 

He startles a little, trying to pull away with a broken sound of alarm, until he hears the voice murmuring into his ear. 

"Shh, buddy, it's okay," Hunk says, gently, arms like a blanket around him. "I've got you, it's okay."

"Hunk," Lance chokes, blinking fruitlessly. Someone squirms against his other side. "Pidge."

"I'm here," she says, small and reassuring. Her knees dig into Lance's leg where she's positioned. 

"Are you okay?" Hunk asks. He keeps his voice soft, but it's urgent, like he doesn't want to scare Lance but even more afraid that he might be hurt. 

Lance hates to see Hunk afraid, and he hates hearing the breathy little sounds of worry that Pidge is trying to stifle in his shirt. He grabs his disappointment around the throat, feels it scratch and kick at his arms, then he shoves it down somewhere that no one else has to see. 

He takes a breath, and it only trembles a little. "I'm okay."

"Did they hurt you?"

"No," he says, and he's not even sure if it's a lie. "No, I was—I'm just disappointed."

"God, I thought you were dying," Pidge says against his ribs. She pulls back a little, and her face is flushed. She watches him for a second before she asks, "They didn't let you go?"

Something stabs his chest again, just briefly. "No."

"I'm sorry," Pidge says, which he knows is true. She looks sorry, half-wilted in front of him. And yet, he almost loathes her, just for a second—but it's gone before the thought has fully formed in his head, because she's looking up at him with so much apology in her brown eyes, and she shouldn't be. 

"It's _really_ not your fault," Lance tells her, and manages something like humor with it that makes her smile weakly in response. 

Hunk squeezes his shoulder, pulling back just enough to see Lance's face. There's something in Hunk's expression that makes Lance feel incredibly stupid. Because he's not surprised, obviously. He saw this coming, even when Lance was blinded by his own foolish hopes. 

"I —well, I sorta thought this might happen," Hunk admits, and Lance is waiting for the _I told you so_ , but then Hunk surprises him. He tugs a bag that Lance hadn't noticed forward. "I have a plan."

Lance stiffens. "Buddy, I don't know..." he says, reluctant even as his heart starts to kick back into action. 

"It's a good plan," Pidge pipes up, and she grins when he looks at her. "I helped."

They're looking at him with so much caring and hope. Lance has always been an impressionable kid, okay; he soaks up everything around him like a sponge. And maybe right now he's a sponge that's just been stomped into a mud puddle a few times, but he can still feel his friends' enthusiasm trickling in. He manages a smile and pretends like it doesn't pull on the salt that's dried on his face. 

"Okay," Lance says, clapping his hands together. Hunk and Pidge's grins grow. "Okay. Royal ball, take two. Hunk, hit me with your sweet brain baby."

"Right, so like, you're not allowed to go to the ball, and if Zarkon or Lotor see you there they'll be pretty mad." Lance's mouth twitches sardonically at the understatement, but he nods at Hunk to continue. "Well, I was thinking—"

"This is taking too long," Pidge interrupts, reaching forward and yanking the bag from Hunk's hands. She sticks one hand in, and Lance watches in shock as she withdraws a shimmering blue dress that catches the moon's rays and sends them bouncing off like stars. "We think you should dress up like a chick so they don't recognize you."

"I—" Lance blinks. It's... not a bad plan. "—yeah. Okay."

"Wait, what? I thought you'd be more against it. You have to wear a dress." Pidge seems genuinely surprised, dropping the dress back into the bag. 

"I know," Lance says, grinning, and he pulls the bag out of her hands, lifting the dress out to press it against his chest. "It's pretty."

Pidge squawks, and Hunk adds, "And it's your color."

Lance looks down at it. "You're right. It totally is."

"What the hell," Pidge says, not even a question. "I shouldn't be surprised."

"No, you shouldn't," Lance agrees cheekily and leaps to his feet, his friends clambering up after him. "I need to get ready! The night's a-wastin'!"

Hunk hurries to follow him inside the grand manor, scooping up the bag as he does so, and Pidge waits outside for a few more moments before she gives in with a groan and joins them. "I'll do your hair."

And, logically, he knows he's a bit of an idiot. Honestly, this is a terrible idea. He's going to the ball that his step father with a penchant for beating him bloody and his weirdly obsessive step brother explicitly told him not to attend, all the while dressed up like a girl in the mad hope that they won't recognize him.

He doesn't feel like an idiot, though. He feels… pretty.

It's the clothes, obviously. He knows he isn't actually pretty, all scarred and bruised. But looking at himself in the full-length mirror, he feels like he's more than all the years piled up on him from this house. He feels like he's worth something.

The dress is, as Hunk insists enthusiastically, his color. It's a shade lighter than the blue of his eyes, made of an odd, glimmering fabric that he doesn't doubt Pidge has something to do with. It's not low-cut, and the sleeves are long to cover his arms, but it's tight and it gives him a waist that he doesn't see very often, then falls into a long, flowing skirt that just barely skims the floor. He wears a black choker around his neck, not thick, but enough to hide some age-old scar that would give him away to Zarkon in a second. And makeup—he did most of that himself. He exaggerates his features until he's someone else, more regal, more beautiful.

There are still things that identify him as Lance: his dark skin, his smooth hair, shocking blue eyes. But they're overshadowed by everything that he changed, so that any Lance that's left of him is only visible if you're already looking for him. And, after all these years of being obediant and meek and afraid, there's no reason anyone would suspect that he'd turn up at the ball against orders, much less in a gown and full makeup.

It's a little overwhelming, actually. Everything is so different than he's used to, so nice. If he was asked, Lance would have insisted that the dress is more than enough. But Hunk, because he's Hunk, didn't ask. And that's what leaves Lance almost speechless, holding a pair of radiant high heels.

"Geez, Hunk," Lance breathes, blinking at the shoes in his hands. "What are these made of?"

"A white tungsten alloy," Hunk says, an odd mixture of proud and sheepish. He rubs the back of his neck, gesturing to the shoes. "They might be a little heavy, but they should fit. Which is more than I can say about any other heels I could find. Bud, your feet are huge."

"You know what they say about big feet." Lance waggles his eyebrows, smiling when Pidge groans. "But seriously, dude. These are incredible."

It's not an exaggeration, either. Lance always knew that Hunk is the best metalworker in all of Altea, but this is beyond belief. How he managed to shape metal into something so smooth and delicate is something Lance can't comprehend. At first glance, they're rather simple, just a pair of gleaming silvery slippers. But upon closer inspection, they have an odd sort of hammered out texture that's smooth and almost corrugated, giving it a thousand different surfaces that pick up the surrounding light and send it bouncing off in dozens of different directions. Saying the shoes are incredible is an understatement, but Lance doesn't know what else to say.

It's a good thing, then, that Hunk has always understood him so well. "Thanks, buddy."

"No, thank you," Lance says, shaking his head. He slips the shoes on under the overwhelming skirt of his dress. "They're perfect."

"They better be," Pidge grumbles. "I had to measure your feet for these things."

Lance starts to ask when, exactly, she had the chance to do such a thing, but cuts himself off. He doesn't really want to know. Instead, he smooths down the front of his skirt, a little nervously, and puts his hands on his hips. "How do I look?"

It's a joke, but both Hunk and Pidge step back to admire him. He must either look completely ridiculous or fantastic, because their faces stretch into wide, proud smiles. Hunk even gets a little teary eyed.

"You look like a girl," Pidge says, obviously thrilled.

The blunt statement is enough to calm some of his nerves. Lance bats his eyes. "Am I a pretty girl?"

"The prettiest," Hunk replies, barely joking, and grins at Lance when he turns to him. "Should we go show everyone in the kingdom?"

The anxiety bubbling in his stomach is all of a sudden completely washed over by excitement. In a way that contrasts the intricate elegance of his outfit, Lance pumps a fist in the air, whooping. "Let's go show these losers how to party!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :') guess who's in this chapter

Hunk and Pidge don't enter with him. They accompany him as far as the tall, white gates that surround the castle, but they don't go any farther. When Lance questions them, Pidge mumbles something he can't quite make out, and Hunk gives him a smile.

"Don't wanna blow your cover, bud," is all he says, then he gently pushes Lance through the gates. "Go have fun."

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" Pidge calls after him brightly.

"That doesn't present a lot of boundaries," Lance teases back and is spurred on by the sound of Pidge's sputtering behind him.

The castle is… well, it's beyond Lance's wildest hopes. The entire thing is an immaculate white, with accents of light blue and pink—the royal colors—decorating the turrets and archways incorporated throughout it. The tower that Lance could see from his bedroom is almost out of view from where he stands now, at the bottom of a wide staircase leading into what he presumes is the castle's main hall, but Lance still cranes his head back to look at it, a little awed at seeing it up close for the first time.

He allows himself a few more minutes of gawking, of looking at the finely embroidered lions on the banners that fly from pillars and balconies, until he makes his way into the building. He's afraid that the guards will recognize that he's a boy in girl's clothing or that they'll stop him and ask for an invitation, but they do neither of those; just as all the other guests trickling into the castle, Lance is allowed in without question.

And when he is in, he's amazed.

There are more people in the room than Lance has seen at once in his entire life. All of them are dressed in finery like his own, and if Lance had shown up in his simple white shirt and pants like he'd planned, he'd have stuck out like a bruise on pale skin. As it is, though, he blends right in with the crowd, though he has to admit that his own gown is a few tiers more fashionable than that of most of the women around. And there are a lot of women. And men. But despite that, it doesn't feel stuffy or over crowded, because the room they're in is plenty large enough to hold them all.

The room, much like the outside of the castle, is made of pure white stone, like marble but without the veins. It has ceilings high enough to fly kites in, and thick swathes of fabric hang down from hooks on the wall like elegant streamers. There's a lot to take in, from the odd crystalline light features to the table displaying an overwhelming amount of different foods to try, but Lance does his best to absorb it all. Maybe he looks ridiculous with his eyes gone wide and his mouth agape, arms spread out to his sides as if he could soak up the experience through his skin, but he can barely bring himself to care.

He's here. He's made it. It is quite literally a dream come true.

Lance doesn't spend too much time just looking, though. He throws himself into conversations, flirting with girls and guys alike and enjoying the attention that looking like a beautiful woman merits. He's enjoying himself, maybe a little too much. He remembers that he used to be a real charmer back when he was a kid, and falling into that title is easier than he'd thought it'd be. He's got quite an audience as he waxes poetic about a woman's beautifully done up hair, and he's content to revel in their attention and laughter until he sees a familiar face from just beyond his small crowd. It's Lotor.

Lance's breath catches in his throat. He's heading right for him.

Without another thought, he excuses himself from the conversation. Quickly, he starts to weave through the crowd with no particular place in mind to get to besides the hell away from Lotor. After all, if he gets too close, he'll recognize him. And if he recognizes him…

Lance doesn't want to find out, so he keeps hurrying. Maybe he'll duck into a restroom somewhere and hope Lotor loses interest. Or try to hide behind some curtains. Any plan is better than this aimless fleeing, but as Lance starts to think harder about it, he runs smack into someone, sending him stumbling backwards.

"I'm so sorry!" he says, lurching forwards towards the shocked woman who he crashed into. She's beautiful, now that he's actually looking, with long white hair and striking multicolored eyes. She's… weirdly familiar, too, though Lance can't quite focus enough to put his finger on it. He continues, "Are you okay, ma'am?"

The woman watches him for a moment, eyes wide, and Lance notices two guys on either side of her, glaring at him all imposing and tense. God, she's probably rich if she's got bodyguards. He hopes she's not so incredibly important that she could have him killed.

She doesn't really seem keen to, though. Her shock melts quickly into something like amusement, and she pats him on the shoulder. "I am just fine," she says reassuringly, and Lance relaxes a bit, sparing a second to look over his shoulder. She watches this, curious. "May I ask what has you so distracted?"

"Your beautiful self," is Lance's knee-jerk reaction. He regrets the words that left his mouth almost immediately, but he supposes it's too late to turn back. The next line, however, is delivered with significantly less enthusiasm, "There's no one in all Altea as stunning as you, my lady. And it is with great regret that I've got to get moving."

The woman's face twitches in a way that Lance isn't sure is in amusement or annoyance. Frankly, it's probably a healthy mix of the two. Her bodyguards seem far less entertained, but they say nothing as she replies smoothly, "And why must you go?"

"Oh," Lance flounders for some sort of explanation, before settling on a vague version of the truth, "There's a guy. He's following me."

She frowns. "Following?"

"Yeah, um," Lance pulls at the ends of his sleeves, "I guess he's interested. Ha, who wouldn't be? But I'm, you know, not, and—"

"I think I understand," the woman says, straightening up, looking fierce. Lance hopes she doesn't start anything; he'd really rather just blend into the crowd, not start anything that could get him in trouble. She turns to one of her guards, a tall, well-built man with a scar crossing his face and a shock of white bangs. "Shiro, would you please look after my guest? Keep to her side to discourage unwanted suitors?"

Shiro nods seriously, eyes drifting over to Lance. "Of course."

"You really don't have to do that," Lance says, embarassed. "It's not a big deal."

"It's a very big deal," she argues. "I will not have my party ruined by a man who doesn't take no for an answer."

Lance can barely stutter out his thanks. The vehemence in her voice is shocking. And as she walks away, Lance is left speechless next to the guard that stayed. He eyes him, a little nervously, and laughs. "Uh, hi. Sorry about this."

Shiro faces him, expression unreadable. "It's my job. Don't worry about it."

"Okay," Lance says. "Cool. That's cool. I'm just gonna go over here now, okay?"

"That's fine," Shiro replies, noncommital.

Lance nods. And he starts heading in the direction he indicated. He's viscerally aware of the guard moving like a shadow behind him, not losing him for a moment even as he brushes between people quickly. Lance would awfully impressed if he weren't so uncomfortable.

He draws to a stop next to a far wall where several groups of people have gathered to talk. He's hoping that there's enough of a crowd over here that Lotor won't be able to find him. God knows Lance doesn't know where Lotor is, even as he cranes his head up and scans for him over the crowd. With a sigh that contains both relief and resignation, Lance drops his head back down, giving up on trying to locate him. His hands shake a little when he stares down at them, so he clasps them together and tries to push all the bad feelings away. He's here to have fun. He shouldn't be letting Lotor ruin it all.

Shiro seems to have a similar sentiment. He watches Lance for a few minutes, and through that time his gaze eventually softens from the stony mask it had been previously. Lance must look pretty pathetic if he's made a hardened bodyguard feel sorry for him.

"Hey," Shiro says, clearing his throat a bit. He doesn't quite smile when Lance looks at him, but he's distinctly less blank than he'd been earlier, and he nods towards the rest of the room. "You can go out and have a good time, you know. I won't let anyone harass you."

It's tempting. Really tempting. Lance sort of desperately wants to go out into the crowd, maybe flirt with some nobles, drink some alcohol, go wild. If what Shiro says is true, then he wouldn't have to worry about getting grabbed or groped throughout all of it. But he's not worried about that—or at least not primarily. No, his problem is that he can't be _recognized_. He's not so sure Shiro can protect him from that.

Suddenly, Lance is exhausted. Just. So tired. He can feel weariness bone-deep. He's been so excited for this ball, has gone through hell in the attempt to get there, and now that he's here, he's too much of a coward to enjoy it. It's a sickening reminder that he'll never truly be free of Zarkon and Lotor, no matter what he does or where he goes. They're not something he can mask with a faceful of makeup and a pretty dress.

So, answering Shiro, Lance says, "No, no. I'm all good here. Having a blast, actually. Thanks, though."

"If you're sure…" Shiro says, frowning, and Lance suddenly realizes that the poor guy is probably bored out of his mind, standing over by a wall in the middle of a party. And, like, it's one thing to doom himself to endless yearning to be participating in the action without doing so, but he feels like scum for forcing that on Shiro.

"You can go, really. I'm just gonna stand here for a while, Lotor won't even find me—"

"Lotor?" Shiro repeats, tensing. He says the name like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "He's the one following you?"

"You know him?" Lance asks weakly. He can't say he isn't a little nervous in the face of all the tension being exuded, and hopefully he didn't just piss off a guy who can kill him without breaking a sweat.

"Yeah," Shiro says darkly, and surprises Lance by continuing, "Not exactly a fan. And from what I know about him, it's no surprise he harasses pretty girls at parties."

Lance is torn between relief at having an ally against Lotor, and elation at the fact that he was essentially just called a pretty girl. Either way, Lance can't help but beam.

"You think I'm pretty?" Lance asks teasingly, and Shiro bows his head a little, clearing his throat. It's an immensely satisfying reaction.

"…anyway, you don't have to worry about Lotor. I can handle him," Shiro says reassuringly, albeit a bit gruffly.

"I'm sure you can," Lance says, completely honestly. Because, um, _damn._ Shiro has biceps as big as Lance's thighs and thighs as big as Lance's torso. Not to mention that barrel chest and those six-pack abs, visible even through the light armor he wears. He could probably make Lotor keel over by flexing at him.

Shit. Lance has been eyeing Shiro far longer than acceptable. In an effort to make it seem like he wasn't blatantly ogling Shiro, he says, "Because of that big sword of yours. You know, the one on your belt. In it's, um, sheath. The black one. It's a very nice sword. Very sharp."

Lance winces.

Shiro, for his part, actually looks down at his sword, as if assessing Lance's statement. Then, he looks back up at Lance, who's currently praying for the ground to swallow him whole. Then, remarkably, Shiro laughs.

"Oh, man," Shiro says, face lit up with humor in an unfairly attractive way, "You sounded like Keith."

"Who's Keith?" Lance asks, trying to keep the tiny amount of jealousy he feels from seeping into the question.

Shiro snorts, rolling his eyes, but there's something fond in his eyes. "He's my brother," Shiro starts, and at the tone of his voice Lance finds himself smiling, settling against the wall in preparation. "He's… kind of a hothead and a little antisocial, but a really good kid. There's no one I'd rather have at my back than him. This one time, back in training, he..."

When Shiro talks about this Keith kid, he gets softer. His eyes light up, his mouth stretches into a smile, and his whole face goes a bit dreamy and distant. Lance would be lying if he said it's not endearing. 

It reminds him of what it feels like to talk about his own family, filled with pride over his older siblings and practically bursting with the desire to share it. He hasn't felt it in years. Usually, all his memories of his siblings are clouded in grief, and he can't get more than a few words out without feeling like he's choking. But, as Shiro winds down a story about Keith picking a fight with their horse riding trainer, Lance finds himself tentatively offering up his a story of his own. It's something small and humorous, about the time he dropped a crab in his sister's bathing suit, but when Shiro laughs and offers up another of his own stories, completely unassuming, Lance's tongue loosens until he's telling stories about things he hasn't allowed himself to think about since they died. 

It's kind of amazing. There's still an ache in his chest as he talks about his family, but it's no longer so all-consuming. It's dimmed by how happy the memories make him, how good it feels to laugh about these things again. 

They talk for what simultaneously feels like hours and no time at all. They mainly tell each other stories, but they talk about other things, too: jokes so dumb that they make them both laugh so hard that they're doubling over, grabbing onto the wall or each other to keep from falling on their butts; discussions about space, about what's beyond the starry layer of sky they can see, that leave Lance feeling small and amazed; comments about the other guests; compliments to each other; the weather, even. And none of it is forced or uncomfortable. Lance has only felt a connection this deep with Hunk before, and even that is something completely different than how this feels, like there's something in his stomach simmering away, sending warm steam through the rest of his limbs. He's vaguely aware of the heated blush that's spread from his cheeks down to his chest, leaving him a little pink-tinted. He'd be more bothered, perhaps, if Shiro's face didn't have a rosy hue to it, too.

Lance can barely talk around the grin his mouth is pulled into, but he somehow manages, finishing off another story. "And then he threw Benita as hard as he could into the ocean. He actually managed to get her halfway to the sandbar."

"I can't say she didn't deserve it a little," Shiro laughs, shaking his head. He takes a moment to recover, then looks back up at Lance with twinkling eyes. "Arturio really needs to meet Keith. They seem a lot alike."

And the good feeling fractures a little, Lance tensing up, smile freezing in place. It takes a few seconds, but when Lance doesn't reply, Shiro asks, hesitantly, "I'm sorry, did I say something wrong? I wasn't trying to offend you in any way—"

"No, it's not—you didn't." Lance pats his shoulder gently, trying to make his smile feel more real. "It's just, well. My family didn't make it through the war. You know how it is."

"Oh," Shiro breathes, expression filling with regret. It makes Lance feel sort of shitty. They'd been having a great time, and then he had to drag his dead family into it. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"Yeah, I didn't tell you," he says, a little bitterly, then sighs. "Sorry, sorry. Um, it was awhile ago. It's really okay. If I was bothered, I wouldn't have talked about them."

Shiro is quiet for a few moments, watching Lance with a soft look on his face. Then, he suddenly says, "I fought in that war."

Lance turns to him with wide eyes. "You don't have to—"

"I know," Shiro interrupts him. He's a little tense, but insistent as he says, "Look, I just—I know how it feels to lose people. My team got captured, once. We lost some really brave guys. I'm not going to go into detail, but I get it."

Lance can't really help but stare. He's never had someone say that to him. Not even Hunk or Pidge, who he's known for years, who he knows have been affected by the war, too. But Shiro, after a few hours, somehow has managed to get him to not only talk about his family, but also offered him a small bit of understanding in response. It's sort of surreal.

"Thank you," he says. His voice is soft despite no one being close or interested enough to hear them talk. Shiro nods, a little jerkily, and Lance hesistates before asking, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Thanks."

"Yeah, you are. _Real_ fine." It's a reflex response, basically trained into him. Usually, he thinks it's hilarious, because Hunk and Pidge always respond so well, either in kind or by getting annoyed. But now he's sort of horrified. He has a nice, heartfelt moment with this—admittedly very fine—guy, and he ruins it with his big mouth. Lance's hand snaps up to his mouth immediately.

Shiro's face is suddenly a bright pink, undoutably mirroring the shading of Lance's own. He coughs, then says, "Thanks. You're not so bad yourself."

The words take a moment to register, and it takes another moment for Lance to realize that Shiro just flirted back. But when he does, the grin that takes over his face is practically blinding. "Hey, Shiro, are you wearing space pants?"

"Uh, what?"

"'Cause your ass is out of this world."

For a second, Shiro continues to stare at him with puppy-faced confusion. But Lance sees the moment the realization dawns on him, and he grins even harder as Shiro releases a few shocked laughs.

"Okay," Shiro says, face falling into a playful, slightly competitive grin. "Does your left eye hurt? Because you've been looking right all night."

Lance bites his lip. "Are you lost? Because heaven is a long way from here."

Shiro leans forward just a bit. "If you were a steak you'd be well done."

"I'm not a photographer, but I can picture us together."

"If beauty were time, you'd be eternity."

Lance takes a small step forward, so that they're not much more than a foot apart. "Is there a mirror in your pocket? Because I can see myself in your pants."

"Shit, that was a good one," Shiro sounds simultaneously annoyed and impressed, along with a whole lot of delighted. "Okay, okay. Your hand looks heavy. Here, let me—"

But before he finishes his line, he cuts himself off.

"Was that it?" Lance's smile falls a little. "Uh, Shiro?"

Shiro's watching something over Lance's shoulder, eyes focused and intense. With a quick glance, it's easy to find that it's Lotor, weaving through the crowd and getting closer. Lance's heart skips a beat.

His fight-or-flight instincts are about to send him beelining for the door when Shiro grabs his hand, leading him gently out to the dance floor. Pulling him into position for the waltz that's just begun, Shiro tilts his head down to say, "Evasive action. Is this okay?"

Lance swallows, blinking up at him. "Yeah. This is fine."

Shiro smiles at him, puts a large, gentle, warm hand on his waist, and they begin to dance. "Good."

At first, it's a little awkward. They're both good dancers, so getting in the rhythm of things is no problem, but it's a bit odd to be spinning around the room, practically holding each other in their arms, and saying nothing at all. Lance hates silence. So after enduring it for a solid minute, Lance can't stand it anymore. He has to say something.

So, he asks, "How'd you learn to dance like this?"

Nice. Good one. A solid, neutral question. Five points for Lance.

"I actually learned just recently," Shiro says, eyes lowering and meeting his steadily.

"Yeah? That's impressive. You're really good." Suddenly the space between them seems a lot smaller, and Lance can feel his cheeks heating up, probably staining his face a telling pink.

Shiro's mouth twitches, just a bit. "Yes, well, I had a very insistent teacher. Princess Allura wanted to make sure I was well-versed in every area of the court."

"That makes sense," Lance says, a little absently, because Shiro's eyes are very pretty, and he can't remember ever seeing eyes so grey before—"Wait. Did you say _Princess Allura?"_

"Uh, yes?"

"You work for—oh my God." Lance's eyes widen. "That was Princess Allura."

Shiro blinks. "You just figured that out?"

Lance sags a little, letting Shiro hold the full weight of his arm where their hands are connected. "How was I supposed to know? I've never been to a royal ball before. I'm from the outskirts."

"She was wearing her crown," Shiro says, a teasing smile curving his lips. "And she referred to this as her party. And you as her guest."

"I was a little overwhelmed, okay?" Lance says, and Shiro laughs. Lance sort of glows in response.

"I'm glad you're doing better now, then," Shiro replies, in his deep, kind voice that makes Lance's knees tremble just a little. "Or else you couldn't do this."

And suddenly Lance is being dipped, not deeply, but enough to send him grasping onto Shiro like a lifeline. When he's righted again, Lance can't suppress the giggles that bounce out of him, nor can he contain the slightly competitive fire that flares up in response.

He asks, "Is that the best you can do, big guy?"

Shiro's eyes are sparkling. "Let's find out."

Lance can't help but laugh as Shiro spins them around. He hasn't danced like this in years, not since the first of his siblings died in the war, but he suddenly remembers how much he's missed it. Not just the moving and the music—though he enjoys that too. But the sense of being in the moment with a person, doing something together, sharing a space. It's surprisingly intimate, even in front of all these people, but still playful. For the next few songs, they gradually get more and more ridiculous, showing off to each other and all the other couples trying to share the dance floor with them. The moves they use increase in complexity until they're stumbling and tripping into each other more than what's probably proper at a royal ball, but it's fun, and they're laughing, and frankly, Lance doesn't really give a shit about what the people sending them scandalized looks think. This is the happiest he's been in years.

Shiro winks at him before twirling him out, Lance's dress flaring around him. And when he rolls back in until Shiro's chest presses up behind him and he's safely encased in his arms, Shiro leans his face over his shoulder and presses his cheek against Lance's briefly. It's almost surreal. Lance can't stop smiling.

Shiro can't seem to stop, either. His lips are in a gentle curve that widens every time Lance laughs, and he's staring down at Lance so fondly. The song they were dancing to draws to a close with Lance being held firmly up against Shiro, both of their chests heaving against each other as they breathe heavily. They're alarmingly close, their breath getting all mixed together, and Lance is almost lost in the look Shiro is giving him. Almost, but not quite.

Over Shiro's shoulder, he notices a flick of silvery hair, and his eyes are drawn to it. Just ten feet away, on the edge of the dancefloor, Lotor stands, watching him with narrowed eyes. There's something dawning on his face, the expression one wears when there's a word on the tip of their tongue. Just like that, Lance's stomach bottoms out, and he feels his own face drop.

"Hey," Shiro says, making Lance's eyes snap back to him. He's frowning, eyebrows furrowed, watching him with a look of such concern that Lance could cry. "Are you alright?"

"I—" Lance cuts himself off as he starts to lie, and instead gives a quick shake of his head. "He's staring at me again."

There's no need for clarification; Shiro knows who he's talking about as soon as he says it, and his face grows hard and cold in an instant as he glances over his shoulder to glare. Determinedly, he says, "I'll take care of him—"

"No!" Lance says, interrupting, and Shiro's gaze is back on him. Lance swallows, dropping his chin a little. "No, can we just go outside, maybe? I wouldn't mind a little fresh air." It's not a lie. He really is feeling a little stuffed up in here, but it's probably more the feeling of being trapped by Lotor's gaze. But he can't have Lotor sent home, because then Lance will be out of time, so taking a break outside is a better alternative for everyone.

His own internal reasoning doesn't really matter, though, because as soon as he says the words, Shiro is taking his hand and leading him through the crowd until they go through a doorway that'd been covered up by a curtain. Behind it is a large balcony that opens up over the castle's front garden, the town easily visible over some trees, the dark night sky with all its stars sparkling up above them. The music and coversation from the ball is still audible behind them, but it seems distant, now. Like the only people who exist are him and Shiro.

"It's beautiful," Lance breathes, looking up at the freckled sky.

"Yeah," Shiro agrees softly, and when Lance looks, he's staring right at him. "It is."

His heart feels like it's being squeezed. He feels so much for Shiro, so suddenly, that it's like someone just punched him in the stomach. He's about to cry. Lance hasn't felt like this before, like the entire universe in within his reach now that Shiro's with him. Like Shiro is his entire universe.

He hopes—God, he really fucking hopes—that Shiro is feeling similarly. Frankly, Lance is surprised that he likes Shiro this much after just a few hours together. It seems impossible that someone like this could think anything of him, especially after knowing him for all of one night. But here Shiro is, looking at him like that. As if he can see eternity in Lance's eyes.

He finds himself leaning forward, drawn through some sort of magnetic attraction. Shiro's face dips down a bit, hands moving up to land on the sides of his face, thumbs resting on his cheekbones, and they're so close. Their mouths are just a breath apart. Heat is washing through him, lighting up every place Shiro presses against him, and he's sure he's wanted something this bad before but he can't think of anything right now, not with Shiro's face so close to his.

"Shiro," Lance murmurs. "Shiro, I—"

A faint conversation distracts him. It isn't coming from the ball. No, down below, two people descend on the grand steps that lead into the castle doors. Lance steps away from Shiro, focusing on the two, and realizes with a sudden wave of nausea that it's Zarkon and Lotor, making their way down to their waiting carriage. They're leaving.

Shit. They're _leaving_.

"I have to go," Lance finishes suddenly, the magic of the night dropping away.

"What?" The words are shocked. Shiro's face is an open book of confusion. "Why?"

Lance shakes his head, already starting for the doorway that heads back to the party. "Goodbye."

"No, no, wait," Shiro says, hurrying after him, a little frantic. "What's happening? Talk to me."

"I'm sorry," Lance says, pausing just before the curtain to look at him. He winces at the look on Shiro's face. "Thank you for everything. You're—sort of amazing. Really amazing. I loved talking with you. But I have to go. Like, right now. Goodnight." He gives him a painful smile, stepping backwards and away, then runs back into the ballroom.

"Wait!" he hears Shiro call after him, but Lance doesn't. He weaves and pushes through the crowd as fast as he can, desperation giving him the speed he needs. He's to the entrance before Shiro is even halfway through, and he sends him one last, lingering look before he runs down the stairs, blue dress rucked up so he doesn't get tangled in it. He knows when Shiro gets there because he can hear the faint, "No, wait! Please, don't go!"

It hurts to hear him sound like that, and Lance glances back just one last time. Shiro's a distant figure running down the long set of stairs after him, as much as he wants to, Lance can't wait for him. That moment of distraction costs him; he trips, stumbling forward, losing a gleaming shoe. Lance turns back to grab it, but Shiro's drawing closer, and he's running out of time. He leaves it.

And as Lance disappears into the night, racing down the road and cutting through alleys, Shiro slows to a stop at the bottom of the castle steps. He picks up the metal heel, watches it shine in his hands, and says quietly, "I never got your name."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am not thrilled with this chapter, like, at all. but here it is. school has started back up, so updates might take a bit longer, but it's almost finished so !!! read the tags and stay safe y'all

He doesn't make it back to the manner before Zarkon and Lotor.

It's no one's fault but his own. Hunk and Pidge gave him a way to go to the ball, but it was his job to make it back without being caught. And he failed. Yeah, he really messed that one up.

"I'm surprised," Lotor says, and he isn't smiling. Sometimes his mouth twitches upwards, like he's trying to layer on that terrifying grin he likes to wear, but it quickly snaps back to the half-snarl that's taken over his face. He should know that this is much scarier than any of the smiles he likes to employ. "I expected better from you."

Lance doesn't say anything. Lotor is probably expecting an apology, but Lance can't bring himself to give one. Because he's not sorry. He's so not sorry that he could sing, right here on the floor of his room, with his dress in shreds around him and his back throbbing.

When he arrived back at the manner, sneaking in through the back door in the futile hope that he could make it to his own room without being noticed, Zarkon was the first to catch him. There was a second of inaction as Zarkon realized that the girl slinking through his halls was actually the servant boy he'd left at home, but after that he was gripping Lance by the scruff of his neck and slamming him against the wall, face thunderous. He was the first to catch Lance and the first to punish him, ripping the back of his beautiful dress right down the middle and revealing the scarred skin of his back.

What happened after that was a blur that Lance doesn't want to really think about too closely, but afterwards he staggered to his attic room with blood running in streams down his back and staining the blue fabric still clinging to his waist, and Zarkon very calmly walked to his own room, his reddened belt clenched in white-knuckled fists.

Lotor, of course, saw it happen, but he didn't get to intervene until his father was through. He entered Lance's room a few minutes after Lance himself got in, and he was angrier than Lance could ever remember seeing him.

"You know, I thought that girl roaming around the ballroom looked familiar," Lotor spits. He's pacing around Lance, walking the room in circles like an animal. If he was a spider before, now he's a panther, agitated and ready to pounce. "She acted like a slut. It's no surprise that she turned out to be you."

Lance clenches his jaw. He's hurt, and he's afraid, but he's also tired of this. He wishes Lotor would just snap and get his punishment over with. It's exhausting to be so afraid.

Lance says, "I'm not the one who tried to screw his servant."

Golden eyes snap to his, furious. Faster than Lance can even realize, Lotor has crossed over to him and grabbed him by the throat, pulling him up until he's standing on his tiptoes. His face is too close to Lance's, and when Lotor speaks, beads of spit land on his face.

"And I still could," Lotor threatens. His face is flushed, hair a bit mussed. His nails dig into the skin of Lance's throat, and Lance's hands scrabble uselessly at Lotor's. "I did you a kindness by giving you the choice, but I can still take that choice away."

A whine or something just as humilating squeezes through Lance's strangled throat, and after another moment, Lotor drops him back to the ground to wheeze and cough.

"You know, I saw you with Allura's paladin," Lotor says, resuming his pacing. Lance rubs his throat gingerly and glares up at him. "Did you know they call him the Champion because he won every battle he fought? He's a hero, a true warrior," Lotor's eyes trail across Lance slowly and disdainfully, "He could never want you."

Just thinking of Shiro makes Lance's chest ache. The look in his eyes when he ran away without explanation will ruin him, he's sure of it. Shiro is funny and kind and apparently a war hero—and what is Lance? Who is he compared to Shiro?

"You're a servant," Lotor says venomously. "You whored yourself out for a night on the town, and you didn't even whore yourself well. Look at you. You're covered in your mistakes, Lance. You think someone like him is going to come rescue you?" Lance glares up at him, and Lotor bares his teeth a little. "Does he even know you're a boy?"

How could he? Lance didn't tell him. God, Lance isn't even sure he told him his name. No, Shiro won't be rescuing him. But Lance didn't go to the ball to get rescued, he went to have a single night of freedom. And he did, didn't he? Even if it's ended rather poorly, the rest of it was amazing.

Shiro probably won't even remember Lance exists by the end of the week, but Lance will remember Shiro. And that's enough. It has to be enough, because that's all he's got.

Lotor glowers down at him like a rabid animal, and Lance holds his gaze. Just to make him mad, he says, "Oh, he knows I'm a guy alright. I made sure of that," and he adds a wink that holds all sorts of suggestions.

Lotor's nostrils flare, and Lance hears the hit before he feels it, the hot stinging throb after the crack of Lotor's hand across his face.

Lance snorts. "The Champion was rougher."

And Lotor honest-to-God growls. Lance flinches back as Lotor lurches forward, hitting his head on the floor in the attempt to get away. But even then it's fruitless, and Lotor grabs a handful of Lance's hair, picking him up and slamming his ravaged back against the wall. It hurts so bad Lance can't breathe for a few seconds, vision greying around the edges, and when he finally manages to get a shuddering breath in the exhale is a loud sob.

"Sh-Shit," Lance chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut and dislodging the tears that had gathered there. "Fuck."

"You think you've won?" Lotor asks viciously, still holding him against the wall. "You've won nothing. You are nothing."

If he could focus on anything other than the awful fire eating at his back, then maybe he'd have some sort of retort. As it is, he just shudders, lets out a whine, and drops to the ground when Lotor releases his hair.

"You should thank me for my mercy," he says, and he stalks out of the room, door slamming closed and locking behind him.

The door does not open again for three days, but when it does, Lance almost wishes it had stayed shut.

* * *

Shiro heaves out another sigh and sheathes his sword. Keith and Allura share a look.

They're worried about him. In the days since the ball, he's been moping like this, letting out long sighs and giving tired looks to anyone who tries to talk to him. Not to mention the fact that he's been training far too much, coming to the training room even at night when he should be sleeping.

Keith himself shares the habit of training too much on too little sleep when he's feeling off, but whenever he does, Shiro is always there to draw him out of that funk and force him to take care of himself. Allura doesn't often deal with her problems with obessesive exercise, but there have been plenty of occasions where Shiro has had to coax her away from the endless amounts of paperwork that have been piling up since her father's death. Seeing Shiro in that position they're both achingly familiar with is a bit of a shock, but that doesn't mean they're about to leave him to suffer on his own.

No. In fact, with a meaningful nudge from Allura, Keith takes a deep breath and crosses over to Shiro, placing a hand on his shoulder carefully.

"Hey," Keith says. He tries not to let the concern he feels leak into just that one word, but he's never been much good at hiding his emotions. As it is, he can feel his face turning tender and worried as Shiro turns to him. "Are you okay?"

Shiro winces. "I'm fine, Keith."

"Shiro," Keith says, and his voice reflects everything he doesn't know how to say. _I'm worried about you. What's going on? Talk to me._

"It's nothing," Shiro insists, but he lets out another sigh that takes away from his statement. His shoulders are tense under Keith's hand, his own hand still gripping the handle of his sword—not with the intention of drawing it, but rather as a sorce of grounding. "I'm fine."

"You're not. I know you're not. You're—I don't know. You know I'm not good at this." Keith shakes his head sharply. "Just—I want to help, Shiro."

"There's nothing you can do," Shiro replies, and the frustration and weariness he feels is evident in his voice, in the jumping muscles of his clenched jaw. "You don't need to worry about it."

Keith scoffs and bumps him with his shoulder. "Yeah, like that's going to happen."

At that, Shiro manages a small smile. "I'm sorry for acting so weird."

"You don't need to be sorry," Keith says, rolling his eyes. "Just talk to me."

"I don't want to burden you—"

"You're not!" Keith shouts, and Allura quickly starts coming over. "Shiro, you've been looking out for me since I was a kid, why can't—Don't you trust me to have your back?"

There's something quietly hurt in Keith's voice. Something unsure and hesitant, and it reminds Shiro of the eight-year-old he pulled from the streets twelve years ago, all big eyes and nervous silence. He never wanted to see that insecurity in Keith again, but he's gone ahead and inspired it himself. Shit. Some guard captain he is.

"I trust you," Shiro says vehemently. He relinquishes his death grip on his sword to instead take Keith by the shoulders. "I know you've always got my back. I swear, I know."

"Then why don't you just—" Keith cuts himself off with a quick shake of his head, then looks up at Shiro with a glare. "Come on."

"Shiro," Allura comes to a graceful halt by his side, watching him with a careful frown as he releases Keith and turns to give her his full attention. "Please, we're worried about you."

It's the words that Keith couldn't speak out loud. Hearing them, Shiro slumps, shoulders losing their tension and head bowing a bit out of shame. He hadn't meant to worry them. They already had so much to worry about, Allura with all of the kingdom's responsibilities, Keith with his duties as a guard and his training. The last thing Shiro wanted was to place another burden on their shoulders, but it seems like that's exactly what he's done. And all because of that girl—he suppresses a sigh at the thought of her.

He would tell them. He would tell them, and then he would let it—her—go, and then they won't worry about him anymore because they'll recognize that it's not a big deal. There's nothing wrong. Shiro just needs to see lost causes for what they are.

Allura and Keith watch him as he rubs the back of his neck. It seems they recognize the resignment in his stature, because they no longer prod him to talk to them, and instead wait patiently for him to begin speaking.

"You both remember the girl from the ball, right? The one you sent me to guard?"

Keith nods, and Allura confirms with a quiet word.

"Well, uh," Shiro can feel his face growing warm, "She and I talked. During the party, I mean. And she was really nice and funny, and—"

"We saw you dancing with her," Allura says, the corners of her mouth twitching just a little.

If Shiro's face wasn't already pink, it definitely is now. "Yeah, we danced. And I thought—I thought she liked me. But when I went to kiss her, she just… bolted."

Keith's eyebrows are furrowed. "You really like her."

Shiro's hand goes to the back of his neck again. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Well, perhaps there was a misunderstanding," Allura says. "I'm sure your feelings are reciprocated. She certainly appeared happy with you on the dance floor."

"You should talk to her," Keith says, and Shiro can't hold back the sigh he releases.

"I can't. I don't know her name."

Keith and Allura are quiet for a few moments, and then Keith says, "Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously," Shiro replies, just short of a snap. "She left before I could ask. All I know about her is that she lives on the outskirts of the city and she's missing a shoe."

"A shoe?" Allura repeats, eyebrows raising.

"She lost it when she was, um, running from me," Shiro says a bit sheepishly. "I've got it in my room."

Allura smiles a little. "Then you must return it."

"But Princess—"

"It'll give you a chance to talk to her," Keith interrupts, and when Shiro looks, he's giving him one of his rare, precious smiles. "You've been off for days. I just—you deserve to be happy."

"Thanks, kiddo." Shiro returns the smile wanly and reaches out to ruffle Keith's hair. "But I still don't know how I'll find her."

"Search the outskirts," Allura says simply. "Go from house to house with that shoe of yours. Have the women of each household come determine if it's theirs. It might take some hard work and time, but I'm positive you'll find her."

"Isn't that sort of weird?" Shiro asks hesitantly.

Allura shrugs, waving off the question with ease. "Your sense of humor is weird, too, but she seems to have liked that. Take Coran with you when you go. He knows his way around."

Shiro nods, and hope fills his heart for the first time since he stood at the bottom of the staircase with a girl's abandoned shoe in his hands. "Thank you, Princess Allura. And you, Keith."

Keith rolls his eyes. "Yeah, whatever. I just wanted to use the training room."

With nothing weighing his spirits down, Shiro can't stop the grin that overtakes his face. "Sure, kiddo. Whatever you say."

Keith huffs, and when he turns away there's a light blush dusting his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i kno it's not up to expectations. yikes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um?? yikes. sorry you guys. my only excuse is that school is completely FUCKING ME right now and also i have the motivation of an overripe pear. on that note, please enjoy this very (very very) late update

They go out to the very edges of the crown city, out where the only part of the castle that's visible is it's tallest tower, peaking over treetops and buildings. Shiro can't remember the last time he's visited this area. Maybe in the first tentative years after the war. Maybe before that even.

There's no particular place to start. 'The outskirts' is a pretty vague description, and they're left with a staggering amount of houses to visit in the hope of locating the girl. But Coran is optimistic that they'll be able to find her, and Shiro is determined not to waste all the efforts his friends have gone to in order to see him happy.

So, as per Allura's suggestion, they go from house to house, calling all the women of each home out to take a look at the shoe Shiro carries with him. It never takes long for him to realize that the girl from the ball isn't present. None of the people he's seen so far look like her. Even if he's found people with similar dark skin, or the same silky brown hair, none of them have the those beautiful eyes, or that charming smile, or the sense of humor that leaves Shiro in stitches. Not to mention the fact that the shoe has been too big on pretty much everyone who's thought to try it on—which Shiro only really allows to keep up their pretense.

By the time they make it around a third of the houses that Coran pointed out to be the most likely candidates, the sun is dipping close to the tops of buildings. Shiro's tired and not a small amount frustrated, but he tries to remain positive. _She'll be in the next house_ , he tells himself every time they depart from another home. _I'll find her soon._

They were reassuring thoughts, but they lost their encouragement about the fiftieth time they failed to ring true. Still, Shiro persisted, because even as his hopes of finding the girl starts to flicker, the desperate, cloying want for her keeps burning strong.

He knows that it's weird, okay. Shiro is nothing if not self-aware. He knows who he is, what he has to do, and where he needs to be. He also knows that this girl has sent all of that spiralling out of control. It's weird that he's tracking her down like some sort of stalker, but Shiro can't see any other option. Because this is different. She's different.

The war… it took a lot from him. Not just his friends or his arm, though he missed them all deeply. It stole something from him, some light in his chest. He went into the war a twenty year old kid filled with a desire for adventure, and he came out empty. Shiro knows it. He's not blind. He can see the way Keith sometimes looks at him, like he's missing him even though he's right there. Shiro tries so hard to be what Keith misses and what everyone needs him to be. He tries so hard, a constant uphill battle against himself.

And then he meets a girl, and he's falling back into jokes and smiles without even thinking. That debilitating weight on his chest that made everything so difficult wasn't gone, exactly, but he didn't think about it when he was laughing so hard at one of the girl's cheesy pick up lines. Sending her one in return came naturally in a way that it hadn't in years. Just thinking about her is enough to make something loosen inside of him.

She allows him to be the person he wants to be all the time. Maybe chasing after her is weird. Maybe looking to her like a lighthouse is unhealthy. Shiro can't bring himself to care much. This girl… God, he hopes she feels the same way.

* * *

 The next house they visit is tall and odd. It's made of several different materials, some of which stick out at strange angles and give it a complex sort of look, but it still looks well built and sturdy. When the door is opened, suddenly the strangeness of the house makes perfect sense.

"Shiro, Coran!" Hunk greets them, a great smile taking over his face. He seems surprised but not disappointed to see them, a sentiment that is thoroughly shared. Shiro had certainly not expected to see the head blacksmith on Allura's artisans court all the way out here.

"Hunk," Shiro gives him a small smile, "I hadn't realized this is your house."

"Nor did I!" Coran says cheerily. "It's very nice."

"Home sweet home," Hunk steps out of the doorway and gestures, "Do you guys want to come in? I've got some cookies in the oven. I can probably even get Pidge out of her lab if you want."

"We'd be honored—" Coran says, taking a step forward.

But Shiro grabs his arm and holds him back, offering Hunk a look of apology. "But we can't. We're on a mission."

Hunk shrugs good naturedly. "That's fine. What's the mission?"

Shiro can't help the slight flush that graces his cheeks. "We're searching for a girl from the ball," he says, and he holds the shoe out in front of him for Hunk to see, "All we have to go off of is this shoe."

He expects Hunk to make a joke about the situation, or maybe ask some questions about the beautiful craft of the shoe. What Hunk does, though, is go very still and very quiet, all his characteristic good humor draining out of him. It’s alarming, to say the least, and not a small deal suspicious.

"Oh," Hunk breathes, eyes going wide. His gaze then darts up to Shiro, and he asks, voice shaky and carefully measured, "Why are you looking for—for her?"

Shiro lowers the shoe. "Um—"

"This lad wants to get to know her better," Coran answers, nudging Shiro with his elbow, and he gives Hunk a wink. "But he never got a name, much less an address."

"You want to—really?"

"I know it's kind of weird—"

"No! I mean, a little, but whatever. Shiro," Hunk pauses, looking at him seriously.There’s something contemplative in his eyes as he watches him, something almost probing. Like he’s trying to determine something about Shiro. Whatever it is he’s thinking, he must come to a conclusion, because he eventually continues, "What are you going to do when you find her?"

Good question. It's one Shiro's been asking himself for a while now.

"I don't know," he admits. "I mean, she ran out pretty quick at the ball. I'd like to know if she's okay—"

"And if she's not?" Hunk seems particularly intense as he asks this question, leaning forward a bit as if that'll make Shiro answer faster.

"I'd help her out." Shiro furrows his eyebrows. "Hunk, do you know something?"

Hunk fidgets, eyes dropping to where his hands grasp at each other. "What if… she's not exactly who she says she was?"

"Hunk," Shiro says, voice a command. He can feel himself growing tenser. "What is it?"

"Shiro, please just answer me," Hunk says, and he looks almost desperate. It makes no sense. "Would you still help her?"

"Of course," the answer is immediate. Of course Shiro would help her, no matter what. The girl he met at the ball is unlike anyone he's ever met before; there's not a lot he wouldn't do for her, even now.

But the way Hunk is acting is scaring him. What trouble could this girl possibly be in? How the hell is Hunk involved? What isn't he telling him?

"Hunk, now's a good time to be sharing whatever it is you know, my boy," Coran says, and he, too, looks rather perturbed by the situation.

Hunk squeezes his hands together and lets out a huge breath. "You have to go to Zarkon manner," he says, and though his voice is steady there's clearly anxiety burning right beneath his surface.

"Zarkon manner?" Shiro repeats. "She was being harassed by Zarkon's son the entire time, why would she—oh."

Suddenly, it all clicks. Not the finer details of it all, but Shiro understands the big picture well enough: Lotor has her and she needs help. Some things don't quite make sense—why does Hunk, of all people, know this?—but that's something to address when the girl is out of danger. Right now, they need to go.

Coran seems to agree wholeheartedly, understanding the situation without needing to ask, and he says, "Then we must go at once. Come on, Shiro. I know exactly where Zarkon's manor is."

They don't waste anymore time after that. Coran really does know the city well, leading them down the road with confidence. They're there in minutes.

And as they walk up the path of the towering house, Shiro feels himself tensing. There's no question as to why: for better or for worse, the search should end here.

"Hopefully, we'll be able to retrieve her without issue," Coran says lowly, preparing to knock. "A rather amenable young servant boy works here. I'm positive that we can charm him into assisting."

Shiro certainly would prefer not having to see Zarkon's cruel face ever again—he has enough bad memories of the man as it is. And it would probably be best for everyone involved if they could retrieve the girl without any of the conflict that interacting with Zarkon or his son would instigate. But it seems that the world, like usual, doesn't really care what Shiro wants, because when Coran knocks on the door, Lord Zarkon himself is the one to open it.

"We're here on behalf of her royal highness, Princess Allura," Coran announces smoothly. His face doesn't betray the disappointment he surely feels at their feeble plan going down the drain so immediately, but his expressive voice is far colder than usual. "We are on a mission to locate a young woman who has attended her majesty's ball."

"A girl?" Lotor, Zarkon's unpleasant son, asks. He's eying Shiro with a mix of smugness and dislike, but that doesn't stop his mouth from spreading into a vulgar grin. "Why, I had no idea the princess had those sort of leanings."

Coran's face goes an alarming shade of red, and Shiro himself clenches his fists to his side in the effort of not punching him immediately.

"Do not show such disrespect when speaking of your ruler," Coran snaps.

"My apologies," Lotor drawls, not looking sorry at all. "It was not my intention to disrespect Her Royal Highness."

Coran huffs, ostensibly not bestowing any sort of forgiveness, and Shiro—no less tense, but notably calmer—says, "Do you know anyone who this shoe might belong to?"

Zarkon observes the metal shoe Shiro offers with an impressive degree of impassiveness, though a muscle on his jaw jumps a bit. He's nearly toneless as he responds, "You will not find its owner here. The lady of this house died years ago."

"And there are no other? Not even visitors?" Coran asks, then adds, "Or, ehem, guests?"

Shiro is so concentrated on observing Zarkon and Lotor's faces for signs of lies that the loud crash that sounds through the room sends him grasping at the sword on his hip. He quickly realizes that the ruckus came from a young man who's standing in a doorway leading from some adjacent room, a tray full of various plates and utensils scattered on the ground at his feet. He's tall, lean, and tan, with bruises coloring his face visible even from across the room. He seems genuinely shocked to see them, adopting the look of a startled deer as his eyes skirt over Coran and land firmly on Shiro.

His eyes are incredibly blue. Shiro's breath catches.

Lotor, eyes flicking to Shiro briefly, snaps at him, "Get back to the kitchen, Lance."

Lance—his name is Lance—jumps at the voice, attention snapping to Lotor. Almost immediately, though, he returns his gaze to Shiro, not moving even as he breathes out a quiet, "Okay."

Just that word is like an electric shock. He recognizes that voice. _He recognizes that voice._ Before he can even realize what he's doing, he's calling out, "Wait!"

Lance watches him as he crosses the suddenly silent room, eyes wide and—yes, yes, that same beautiful blue. And the same tan skin. And he doesn't look exactly the same—there's so much more of him visible, long legs and bare feet on display, his raggedy clothes barely hanging on him—but he's still familiar. He's still beautiful. It doesn't make much sense right now, none of this does, but Shiro can still hear his own heart beating loud as he asks softly, "Will you try on this shoe?"

Lance's eyes dart to Zarkon and Lotor, who stand imposing and dark near the entrance. After a moments hesitation, he shakes his head, taking a small step back. "I'm not a girl."

"No, you're not." If the situation were less tense, Shiro might laugh. As it is, he offers him a small smile. "But they're a bit large for girls, anyway."

Lance's mouth opens. Then shuts. He swallows visibly, adam's apple bobbing, and Shiro has half a mind to kneel down and force the shoe on his foot, just to know for sure. Before he does anything that drastic, however, Lotor saunters over, face contorted in a smile alarmingly cruel and cold.

"This is ridiculous. My Lance," he says it with emphasis, eyes flicking between them, "was nowhere near the ball. He was here all night. Isn't that right?"

Lance closes his eyes, hands clasping together and squeezing. His mouth twists.

Lotor repeats, almost a growl, "Lance," and it's no longer a question.

At his name, Lance's eyes open, and now they stare directly at Shiro, ignoring Lotor completely. "Why are you looking for the girl?" he asks, voice low and intense, like he's looking—hoping—for a specific answer.

Lotor's eyes widen, and he takes a step forward that's quickly aborted when Coran clears his throat loudly in response.

Shiro looks at Lotor, staring at Lance with eyes dangerous and possessive. He looks at Zarkon, whose cold face is hard with anger. And then he looks back at Lance, bruised and terrified and hopeful Lance, who has the same voice and eyes as the girl, who isn't really a girl at all. He understands.

He says, "Because whoever I met at the ball is unlike anyone I've known in my entire life. I want to make sure they're living the life I know they deserve."

There's a moment of quiet where Lance is absorbing the answer, where everyone is, and the tension in the room increases tenfold. Then, he looks down at his clasped hands, covered with pale scars, and relaxes them slowly. After a deep breath that looks almost painful, he nods. "I'll try it on."

Shiro ignores the protests from Lotor and Zarkon as he drops to a knee before Lance. With something like reverence, he holds out the metal slipper and, like a key sliding into a lock, Lance's foot fits inside like it was made for it. Something in Shiro's heart is beating against the walls of his chest, and for a second he can do nothing but stare at Lance's foot perfectly nestled in the shoe. Then his gaze snaps up, meeting Lance's, and he smiles breathlessly.

"It's you."

A smile starts to form on Lance's face in response—weak, but there—but then, with a noise of frustration, Lotor lurches forward, taking Lance's arm in a bruising grip.

"That means nothing," Lotor practically snarls, angry and frantic. "You cannot come into this house and take what is mine—"

Shiro is already on his feet at this point, fully expecting to need to intervene, but Lance surprises everyone.

"I'm not yours," he snaps, pulling free with a tremendous tug that sends him stumbling into Shiro. His face is fierce as he continues, "Not your servant, not your anything else."

Lotor spits, postively furious, "You traitorous slut," and moves like he means to reach for Lance again.

But Shiro has had enough. He's finally found Lance, has him snug and warm against his side, and he's through with anyone trying to take him away again. His sword is drawn before Lotor can make it an inch, and he says, voice cold and commanding and more dangerous than he can ever remember it being, "Lance is under the protection of her royal highness Princess Allura. To harm him is an attack against her, and any attack against her is a call to war. Are you prepared for war, Lotor?"

Lotor hesitates. He's held tense like a bowstring, obviously still with half a mind to take a snatch at Lance anyway. But then, Zarkon, moving forward and grabbing his son's shoulder, says, as much for Lotor as it is for Shiro, "We don't wish to start anything."

Lotor lets himself be pulled backwards slightly, though his face curls into something unpleasant and bitter as he stares at Lance. "Of course not. I meant no attack on her majesty."

Shiro glares.

"If you have found what you've come for, may I please ask that you take your leave?" Zarkon is no less formal, though his words have adopted a bite to them that wasn't quite there in the beginning.

Coran marches forward to Shiro's side, glaring at Zarkon and his son as he does so, and touches his shoulder. "Let's go."

Shiro guides Lance out of the manner with a hand on the small of his back. He can't keep his eyes off him for more than a few seconds at a time, and with every glance he sends him, with every step further they get from Zarkon's manner, Lance grows shakier. Shiro can feel the tremble that's started up beneath his hand, a thing that makes his heart clench in sympathy, so as soon as they make it out of view of that terrible place, Shiro tugs Lance gently to the side of the road and sits them both down.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asks, as gently as possible, and Lance makes a choked noise in the back of his throat. His blue eyes bright and his pupils are blown wide.

For a few moments, Shiro doesn't think Lance is going to respond. But then—

"Oh my God," Lance finally says, voice breathy and high. "Oh my God. They're gonna kill me."

"We won't let them touch you again—"

"They were so mad," Lance laughs, obviously hysteric. There's water dribbling from his eyes and he can't look at Shiro. "And now—God, they're gonna kill me. They're gonna kill me. I'm—"

His breathing hitches, and suddenly he's vomiting, choking up half-digested food and bile onto his lap and Shiro's pants. He chokes out apologies between heaves, crying now, but Shiro hushes him, waving it off.

"It doesn't matter," he says, petting Lance's hair gently as the heaving slows. "You're okay. I've got you. You're okay now."

He continues to murmur reassurances for as long as it takes for Lance to get his breathing under control. Then, he wipes his mouth carefully with the hankerchief Coran worriedly offered, and asks, "Your name is Lance, right?"

God. Lance barely knows this guy. He barely knows this guy, and he's already puked all over his pants and sobbed in his arms. And now he's relying on him to keep him out of reach of Zarkon and Lotor. He's so fucked.

Lance nods jerkily and manages, "Yeah."

"Okay, Lance. We're going to take you back to the castle now. Once we get there, you can take a bath, and we'll get you something to eat," Shiro narrates softly. "Does that sound okay?"

Lance hesitates for a second, but nods again.

"Good. That's good. Can I carry you?"

Lance bristles, cheeks flaming, and starts to push Shiro off while insisting he doesn't need help, but Shiro clarifies quickly.

"You don't have shoes. I don't want you to hurt your feet."

Which is a distinct possibility, with these gravel roads being cooked by the sun. Lance understands that, eventually, and gives in with slumped shoulders and a mumbled agreement. It's obviously not the enthusiastic yes that Shiro was hoping for, but he takes what he can get. He scoops him up in his arms, bridal style, and ignores the sour smell of vomit being smeared against his chest. He doesn't mind, really. Not as long as Lance is safe, and he is now, he's safe in his arms, and soon he'll be safe in the castle.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well,,, this took way too long. sorry if it's not totally awesome, but here's the final chapter!

Lance must have fallen asleep sometime on the walk back, because when he wakes up they're in the castle. He only knows this because the halls Shiro carries him through can belong to nowhere else, with the beautiful white stone and the pink and blue accents.

As he makes that realization, though, other things quickly come to his attention. Such as the fact that he's being carried bridle style by a man he's met once, he's covered in his own sick, and Shiro has just turned into a very nice bedroom.

As soon as he sees the bed, he panics. Shiro probably hadn't been aware that Lance woke up, but the fact is very promptly brought to his attention as Lance lashes out in his arms, pushing himself from Shiro's grip and landing on the ground with a thump. Immediately, he scrambles backwards, away from Shiro and away from the bed.

"Hey, hey, Lance, it's okay," Shiro says, alarmed. He holds his hands up and makes no move to come closer, instead watching Lance push himself against a wall with worried eyes. "It's okay. I promise you're safe."

"I—" Lance squeezes his eyes shut and takes a steadying breath. Shiro helped him. He protected him. He shouldn't be afraid. "I'm sorry. I'm okay."

"It's alright," Shiro says gently. He takes a small step forward, and when Lance doesn't react, he quickly closes the distance between them and helps Lance back to his feet. "I understand."

If there's anything that Shiro does, it's understand. Probably more than Lance knows. So he offers him a small smile that turns into a wince as he takes a look at himself and Shiro.

"Yikes," he says. "Uh, yeah, this is disgusting. Sorry."

Shiro shrugs, though there's a hint of a grimace on his face. "You should clean up. There's a shower right through there," he motions towards a door, "I'll leave some clothes outside the door. Is that okay?"

Lance nods and begins to inch his way towards the bathroom. "Thanks."

"It's no problem, Lance," Shiro says. There's a genuine smile on his face. "I'll be down the hall, okay? My room is the one with the black door. I'll come back in an hour for dinner, but if you need anything at all, feel free to stop by."

As soon as Lance makes a noise to acknowledge that he understands, Shiro heads to the door, sending him a final, reassuring smile before shutting the door behind him.

Lance heaves out a huge breath and rubs his hands over his face. What a situation he's gotten himself into. But it could be a lot worse. Shiro could've left him in that house and let Lotor and Zarkon—

No, wait. That's not fair to Shiro. He's been so nice to Lance, even after finding out he was a guy the entire time. Which, honestly, is much better reaction than Lance had hoped for. Shiro wouldn't have left him in the house. But Lance doubts that the chemistry they shared from the night of the ball is going to continue, now that Lance is visibly scarred and scrawny and male.

Still. Better than what he had going on before, even if it is a bit of a disappointment.

Lance strips off his soiled clothes and steps into the shower, taking great care in scrubbing all the grime off of him. The water is nearly scalding against him, tinting his skin red, and Lance revels in the feeling of all the day getting seared away.

Then he steps out, and true to Shiro’s word there’s a pile of folded clothes sitting on the ground just outside the door. Lance tugs them on automatically and is glad to see they’re soft and comfortable, if a bit overlarge. Finally dressed and clean, Lance sits down on the edge of the bed, takes a deep breath, and releases it in one, long exhale. He tries to make the tension still locked into his shoulders fade. He tries to tell himself that everything is going to be okay.

He’s just so scared. It seems impossible that any of this will work out. Shiro isn’t going to want to keep him hanging around forever no matter how honorable he is, and Lance knows that it’s only a matter of time until he’s back with Lotor and Zarkon. Maybe if Lance were beautiful, or if he were female, or if he’d told the truth from the beginning, things might work out. But as it is, he’s a liar who’s covered in scars and bad memories. Happy endings don’t happen to people like him.

There’s a knock on the door, and whatever progress he’s made in relaxing is lost in an instant.

“Lance?” Shiro’s voice comes muffled through the door. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” he calls back, getting to his feet. The door opens, and Lance shifts where he stands, hands grasping at each other.

Shiro gives him a soft smile. “Hey, ready for dinner?”

Lance nods, a little jerkily, and crosses over to him. Shiro seems to be able to sense exactly how freaked out he is, because he doesn’t even try to touch him. Instead he stands back to let Lance step out of room then closes the door—bright blue—behind them before leading them down the white walled halls.

Overwhelmed as he is, Lance can still recognize that everything’s beautiful. The architecture, the lighting, Shiro. The part of him that isn’t freaking out because he’s scared is freaking out because he’s excited. He’s in the Castle of Lions—and not just the public part. This is the living quarters. The real deal.

Then they walk into dining room, and all Lance can think is _holy shit, that’s Princess Allura_.

Because there she is, standing radiant and regal next to some short kid with a mullet. Her and her shadow—Lance is fairly sure he recognizes him as the other bodyguard from the ball, though he can’t be certain—both watch Lance intently as he enters. It’s enough to make him drift a bit closer to Shiro as they cross into the room and come to a stop at the table.

“Princess Allura, Keith, this is Lance,” Shiro says, before turning to Lance. “And this is Princess Allura and my brother Keith.”

Lance fumbles into a bow. “Your Majesty,” he greets, cheeks burning a little.

“Lance,” she returns, her mouth twitching into a smile. “You look very different.”

“Yeah, uh, well—I mean—you see…”

“She’s teasing you,” Shiro whispers with a little smile, and Lance lets out a huff.

“I knew that.”

“Obviously.”

Lance then turns to Keith, only to find him glaring at him. Still, he offers him a smile and says, “Hi.”

Keith scowls. His arms are crossed tight against his chest, and he practically oozes distrust. “Why were you dressed up as a girl?”

Lance flinches. Well, they’re getting right to it, aren’t they?

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Lance shoots back weakly.

“Keith,” Shiro says, voice low, “Not right now.”

“Yes,” Keith takes a step forward, and Lance’s chest clenches. He feels his eyes start to sting. “Right now. I thought you were going to find the girl you danced with at the ball. This—this isn’t her. He was lying the entire time! Doesn’t that bother you?”

“That’s enough,” Shiro snaps, arms tensing, though Lance notices the fact that he didn’t answer the question. Keith’s mouth clicks shut, but his dark eyes stay locked and narrowed at Lance. Shiro heaves out a sigh and shakes his head. “Lance needs to eat. Could you two give us some privacy?”

Keith looks like he has the full intention to argue, but Allura grabs him by the arm—tightly, if his wince is anything to go by—and agrees to Shiro’s request immediately, dragging Keith out by his sleeve. 

Shiro watches them go then turns to Lance. “I’m sorry. This isn’t how I wanted things to go,” he sighs, “Keith’s just—he’s really protective, but he’ll warm up to you.”

“No, it’s,” Lance swallows thickly, averting his burning eyes, “It’s my fault. Keith’s not wrong. I did lie.”

Shiro can probably hear the way Lance’s voice breaks halfway through, see the way he’s obviously barely holding it together. Frankly, Lance is surprised he’s kept it together this long; he’s been ready to fall apart since he woke up in Shiro’s arms. And so Shiro frowns and opens his mouth like he means to say something, but Lance speaks again before he can.

“I’m not who you thought you were dancing with.” Lance laughs self-deprecatingly, eyes growing blurred with tears, and he clasps his hands together. “Definitely not the girl you tried to kiss.”

Shiro starts, “Lance—”

But no, he’s got to get this out. He’s had this building up inside him for a while now, and he has to say it now or he might never.

“I just mean that I know you don’t want me anymore,” Lance continues, the words spilling out of him rapidly, almost against his will. A few stray tears spill over onto his cheeks, “I know I’m messed up. And I’m, you know, a dude. I’ve got scars and—and I lied. I’m sorry. I like you, Shiro, but I know that it’s not gonna work out. I’m not who you thought I am. And it’s fine, really.”

For a moment, Shiro is silent, eyes wide. Biting back a sob, Lance nods to himself, resigned to the fact that he’s about to throw him out on the streets now that any expectation he might feel the need to fulfill has been banished.

But then, Shiro’s face softens. He looks at Lance with honest eyes, reaches up to hold him with gentle hands. “Lance, I don’t care about any of that.”

Lance blinks, a whole new cascade of tears spilling over, and he chokes out, “What?”

Shiro’s thumb rubs at the tear tracks on his cheeks. “I don’t care that you’re a guy, or that you have scars. I don’t care that you didn’t tell me who you are right away. I just want you here with me, okay? If that’s alright with you.”

“Why?” Lance’s voice is barely a croak. His eyes, still streaming, seem glued to Shiro’s.

“Because I get it,” Shiro replies, and Lance is all of a sudden hit with that same sense of understanding that he felt at the ball, “I promise, I do. And you make me so happy; let me do the same for you.”

Lance only hesitates a moment. There’s a tiny part of him that’s still scared, still terrified that this could be another Lotor—but the rest of him is screaming out _yes, yes_ because Shiro is everything Lance has ever dreamed of. When he was a kid, staring out the window to his old attic bedroom, hoping for someone to rush in and rescue him, he was thinking of Shiro. Shiro is here, now. He came. All Lance has to do is have his happily ever after, now.

So, Lance gathers up his courage. He thinks of his dad and siblings, dancing and laughing and ruffling his hair, heading out to die in a war because they want to protect him. He thinks of Pidge and Hunk, listening to him avoid his problems every week, trying so hard to help him. He thinks of his mom, as she pulls him into her lap on the day of her wedding, stunning in her white dress, and tells him to have hope in their new life.

He’s always had hope.

He says, “Okay.”

“Alright.” Shiro breaks out into a shining smile, eyes sparkling. “Lance, can I kiss you?”

Lance’s face is wet with salt and tears, his nose all stuffed with snot from crying. He probably looks disgusting, and Shiro is asking to kiss him. If that’s not proof that Shiro cares about him, then Lance doesn’t know what else could be.

“Yeah,” Lance replies, heart warming and growing in his chest, “Kiss me, Shiro.”

Shiro didn’t surge forward and ravage him, but that isn’t surprising. Instead he leans forward slowly, head tilting, lips parting, and Lance finds himself reacting on instinct, pressing his own lips against Shiro’s with a sigh, melting into the embrace. It doesn’t last long because Lance can’t breathe out of his nose, and when they pull back, they both break out into helpless giggles.

“I’m so lucky,” Shiro tells him.

The grin spread across Lance’s face is bright like a sunrise. “Hi, ‘So Lucky,’ I’m Lance.”

“Shut up,” Shiro groans, no bite to the words, leaning in to press their foreheads together.

“Make me.”

So, Shiro smiles and kisses him again. And again. And again.

And there’s other things they deal with later—Keith’s hostility, Lance’s nightmares, the things Shiro has gone through to make him understand so well—but not right then. Right then, Shiro had found Lance, and Lance finally felt like he’d found the life his mom wanted for him.

 

And ultimately, despite the hardships, despite all the darkness that they’d gone through until that point, they all lived happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I appreciate all the amazing comments you guys have left me. They've been the things that have kept me writing. I know it took me a while, but this fic is finally done. If you want to send me any prompts, hit me up at my tumblr (bubblebucky). It's been real, y'all


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